Almost Undamaged
by JuliaKerns5
Summary: WARNING: Slash House/Wilson goodies! Set after Season 4 finale, major Season 4 spoilers! House attempts to deny his feelings for Wilson after he helps comfort him after the bus accident, but can't fall out of what he's fallen into with his friend. Slash!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

Everything hurt.

His leg, his head, his chest, all of it was burning in a variety of sharp and dull and familiar pains. It was as if someone had thrown him on a bed of needles, both literally and emotionally. He wanted to see Wilson, to see he could salvage their friendship before the oncologist would grow to loathe him.

House stared longingly at his coat, slung over the chair a mere few feet away from his bed. The monitor beeped steadily nearby, creating a dull background noise that only seemed to aggravate House's head. In the black blazer's pocket held a bottle of unopened vicodin, stocked full and ready to heal pain. He groaned, massaging softly at his aching leg. His cane wasn't even in reach.

Ignoring the stabbing pain, House slipped out of the bed and grabbed onto his IV stand firmly. He hobbled carefully over to the chair, wincing with ever step he shuffled. He didn't remember his leg hurting this badly since a year or so.

Finally, anticipation shining on his face like a child seconds before devouring a chocolate sundae, he groped through the dark pocket and withdrew the bottle. He deftly opened the bottle and shook several pills onto his palm. House hastily swallowed them before Cuddy would return to his room to chastise him on defying the meds with vicodin.

With a sigh, House rolled the IV stand and himself back to the bedside. He fell onto the mattress with as much vigilance as he could muster, biting onto his bottom lip as another samurai sword slashed sharply at his thigh. He rubbed it soothingly.

He needed to see Wilson. Apologize for Amber's death and his lack of help – surely he had aided his friend in trying to save the girl but he hadn't helped enough. He felt responsible for not stopping Amber from taking the amantadine, not realizing sooner, not valuing their friendship enough to do deep brain stimulation earlier.

House kneaded at his temples. Normally he wouldn't be so concerned about Wilson's state. Normally House wouldn't blame everything on himself. Running a rough hand over his forehead, the doctor concluded that it must be the meds messing with his mind. He looked over to the monitor, his dosage written on the board in scarlet neon letters.

House groaned. He wouldn't be able to do anything here, stuck in a cloud of linens and a stiff bed. He would get routine visits from Cuddy and his team – never Wilson – but if there was a case he wouldn't be able to do a very thorough job treating and diagnosing a patient while resting himself.

He didn't need the rest.

He frustratingly threw off his sheets, reaching to yank to curtain closed so he could get dressed. He was just about to shrug off his hospital gown when the hangings were jerked open with a loud and obnoxious screeching from the metal curtain rings shrieking on the rod. Cuddy stood disapprovingly by the bed, a fistful of curtain still grasped in her fingers.

"Do you yank open the curtains with all of your patients? Because then all of lawsuits of me assaulting patients is a drop in a bucket compared to your crimes, Cuddy." House snapped irritably, attempting to close the curtains again.

"Are you _changing_?"

House sighed. "It's not what it seems. It looks like I'm putting on my pants, but I'm actually burning down the hospital."

"You wouldn't think that a person who just went though a complex partial seizure would have as much energy as you do." Cuddy replied, rubbing her forehead in her hands. "Would you get back into the bed? I'm not letting you leave without full treatment."

House sighed, still holding his pants in his fingers, raising his eyebrows at his boss. "Cuddy. I have people to save. Lives to rescue. I'm going to leave the room whether you want me to or not, because I'm a lot stronger than you are and also a lot cooler." He smirked impishly, closing the curtains roughly in her censorious face.

He had just gotten his pants on when Cuddy opened the curtain again, a smug smirk playing on her face as she brandished House's cane.

"You're not gonna be able to hobble forever." She said, a satisfied smile on her lips.

"Now _that's_ cruel. It's like taking the wheelchair away from a cripple just as he's about to sit down."

"You want the cane? Lie down for another hours." She flourished it suggestively, twirling it slowly in her fingers.

House threw on his shirt, reaching for his shoes. He slid off the bed, giving Cuddy a pointed stare of undefeated firmness in the situation. He winced with every step, trying to walk lightly with as little pressure as possible.

Cuddy tutted incredulously behind him, putting a hand on her hip before tapping the cane on the floor. "Where are you limping off to, _Grandpa_?"

"I need to see Wilson."

"Yeah. He's the one who was in the major bus accident who could die any second if he's removed from bypass."

House stopped in his tracks, racking his brain for a recollection.

"What is it?" Cuddy asked concernedly from behind him, House's cane still in hand.

"Did Amber die last night?"

The brown-haired woman sighed softly, silently staring at the floor. "Wilson removed her from bypass himself. Died seconds after."

"And you made jokes about her death. Now that's just _mean_, Cuddy." The older man admonished playfully, a hint of teasing at the edge of his voice.

Cuddy grabbed House's arm firmly. "Don't you think it would be better if you let Wilson get through it himself right now? It's the morning after her death."

"He needs a friend. This is exactly what happened with his wives."

"He didn't love his wives anymore. And they didn't _die_!"

"When will you realize that arguing will do you no good? Now are you going to hand me my damn cane or not?"

Cuddy sighed, reluctantly handing over the cane. "Fine. But only because Wilson is having a hard time."

House hadn't listened anymore. He hurried away, the aid of his cane helping immensely. He rapped on his friend's door, listening for movement through the thick would, the silver peeling letters _James Wilson_ pressing painfully against his ear.

"Wilson? Wilson, let me in."

No response. House sighed, knocking harder this time. "It'll hurt my leg a lot more when I have to go around through the balcony. Come on, Wilson, it hurts!" House pined histrionically, "Fine." He finally said when there was not a sound heard on the other side of the door.

House limped his way over his office and balcony until he could spy into the meticulously shiny door and windows to Wilson's office.

A small grin laughed its way out of the doctor's lips when he saw Wilson, head on the desk and forehead rested in the crook of his elbow in a deep sleep. House opened the balcony door before roughly slamming his cane against the wall.

The younger man gave a sudden start, blinking rapidly and rising from the desk with a glance to his wristwatch.

"House," he mumbled, "I'm sleeping."

"No. You _were_ sleeping," House said quietly, still unsure about how his friend felt about House and whether he blamed him for Amber's death, "you have a friend who wants to talk to you."

"For the first time ever." Wilson muttered, straightening out in his chair.

"And probably the last time," House admitted, shrugging. He twirled his cane into intricate movement with his hand, giving a fixed gaze on Wilson's unresponsive chocolate eyes, completely unreadable in emotion. "Why were you sleeping in your office?"

"I couldn't sleep last night," Wilson confessed, "was up most of the night. I was too tired to work when I got in."

House laid his chin calmly on his cane, silent for a moment. Wilson stared at his desk.

"Are you angry with me?" the diagnostician finally asked.

"I was," Wilson said, "I thought about it for most of the night. I thought that you should have stopped her from taking the amantadine or didn't make her pick you up. It was… a desperate attempt to act like this wasn't my fault. That I didn't just kill my girlfriend. But at the end of the night I ended up blaming myself."

"Do you need a hug?" House offered.

Wilson looked up surprisingly, furrowing his eyebrows, "You never offer to hug me. What's wrong?"

House shrugged. "Meds have gone to my head."

Wilson sighed, looking at his lap as though it held all of the answers in the world. "So can I have that hug?" he pleaded in a small, hopeful voice.

"As long as these meds are making me want to hug people, you might as well take advantage of it." he reasoned, meekly holding out his arms.

Wilson got up from his chair, embracing his friend with a strength that could crush wood. He buried his face in House's shoulder, who awkwardly patted Wilson on the back. He never hugged people. He barely even hugged his friends. People occasionally hugged him. Grateful patients, thankful parents, but never did he entirely return those hugs. Wilson gave a strangled sob, attempting to keep his tears to himself.

"I know that you want to say that," Wilson choked out in a stifled voice as he murmured into House's shirt, "I was too good for her. Or that she was a cutthroat bitch. But I don't think it's going to help."

"I think it should," House said logically, "the easiest way to get over pain is to make fun of it."

"Did you make fun of your leg?"

"No. But I did use it for my advantage. I could use the _hey! Did you lose the feeling of your leg because your ex-wife consented to a procedure you weren't approving of?_ And people would stare at me blankly and shut up. It was the cripple card. You can use the dead girlfriend card."

"I don't want to." Wilson sobbed, his voice still muffled.

"Not yet," House said comfortingly, patting uneasily on his friend's back. "But you will."

"Can… can you try to convince me that I didn't miss out on anything? Make fun of her. Maybe… maybe it'll work."

"Okay," House agreed slowly, "she was an insufferable tattletale. She used her underwear to try to eliminate people in my game. She couldn't handle being wrong–"

"Wait, wait, wait," Wilson said, drawing in a breath and pulling back an inch, "what did she use her underwear for?"

House swayed on the spot, his mind wavering in between dismissing the comment and making an offhand sarcastic comment. He sighed.

"Doesn't matter."

They stayed into their one-sided embrace for a few seconds more with House becoming more uncomfortable by each nanosecond flitting by his brain. Finally Wilson pulled back, avoiding House's eyes and hastening back to his seat. He hid his tearing eyes in his palms.

"Hey," House said softly, gently attempting to soothe his friend, "at least you don't need a cane."

The brown-haired man gave a watery chuckle, wiping at his eyes.

"You'll get over this," House continued, "you'll wake up a few months from now without any pain. I never got over this, though." He feebly moved his leg and waved his cane.

"I'm sorry, House." Wilson murmured.

"For what? My leg?"

"No," he forcibly shook his head, taking a shuddering breath, "yesterday I wasn't being rational. I didn't think of you when I asked you to have brain stimulation. I was thinking of Amber. The entire night I was thinking about _her_ life, not yours. It was selfish. You helped a lot, House."

"Not enough."

Wilson let his large, sorrow-filled eyes lock gazes with House. "I still appreciate it."

House cocked an eyebrow suspiciously, tilting his head, "If you're giving me that look because you want another hug, then tough luck. Meds are wearing off."

"I know," the oncologist said, "you've softened, House. Maybe you think that you're still the same, but you've changed. You… thank you."

House chuckled, shaking his head, before he withdrew his bottle of vicodin again, "I save patient's lives every week. Every day, maybe," he said confidently, "and my best friend deserves saving too. Even if it because you're pining after Cutthroat Bitch."

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows together. "What did she do to _get_ that nickname?"

"She was a bitch." House said, as though it had been obvious, "want lunch?"

Wilson sighed, "Why not?" he said, shrugging. "Wait. Do I have to pay again this time?"

House waggled a finger at Wilson, narrowing his eyes as though he was punished a child for dragging mud into the house. "You. Always mooching off of your friend."

"Yeah. That's me." Wilson rolled his eyes.

_AN_: I'd like to apologize for my lack of R/S writing. I will get to more oneshots, but right now I'm totally into House. I was rewatching all of the episodes and realized how much I loved season four and how much I hated Amber and how much I love H/W. Which, if you're reading this, you probably do too!

There will be slashy goodness ahead in the chapters. :D Can't wait to meet all of you in the House community. Review if you liked the first chapter!

Love,

Julie :P


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House limped back to his office, humming indistinctively into the air. He approached the glass door, peering inside to see his team waiting impatiently. Kutner was amusing himself with his pencil, Taub was tapping his fingertips against the table, Foreman was reading the newspaper, and Thirteen was rifling through a skinny book.

House opened the door, hobbling to his desk to pick up another patient's file.

"Male, thirty-seven, vomiting blood." He announced, slapping the blue folder onto the table.

"What the hell took you so long? It's two o'clock!" Foreman reprimanded, furiously folding together his newspaper.

"I had lunch with Wilson."

"Oh, how's he doing? With… Amber dying last night and all." Kutner questioned awkwardly. Thirteen interrupted his inquiry.

"For _three hours_?" she asked suspiciously.

House glanced at Thirteen. "Well, I'm sorry if I don't _inhale_ my food." He replied sardonically.

"No one has lunch for three hours."

"Male!" House boomed, ignoring the chatter among his team, "thirty-seven, vomiting blood!" he repeated insistently.

"Unless they weren't eating food." Thirteen continued, eyeing her coworkers.

"He probably just needed comforting." Kutner said reasonably.

"_He doesn't need comforting_, he needs a diagnosis!" House said firmly, tapping his cane on the table.

"Not the patient, Wilson."

House glowered at Kutner. "Good try, Kutner. Close, but no cigar! Perhaps it's neurological. Foreman, you're cue!"

"Nobody needs comforting for three hours. And nobody eats for three hours."

"Heads up, Thirteen." House warned, tossing his whiteboard marker at her. She caught it deftly, staring up at her boss in confusion.

"I get to write on the board?"

"If it's the only way to shut you up. Come on, now, male, thirty-eight, vomiting blood–" House encouraged, staring fixedly at his team.

"I thought you said he was thirty-seven." Kutner cut in.

The older man glared at him. "You," he said playfully, "are going home with a note."

"Unless you want us to think that you had lunch when you really did something else that you don't want us to know about."

House swiveled around, giving Thirteen a calculating glare. He grabbed her wrist, marker poised in her fingers, and pressed it to the board, scribbling _vomiting blood_ for her.

"There could have just been blood in the stool." Taub reasoned logically.

"Yes, but then that means that he's not dying, and what's the fun in that?" House pouted theatrically.

"Bleeding ulcer in the stomach?" Foreman volunteered.

"Gastritis?" Kutner supplied.

"All good offers," House looked over his shoulder at Thirteen expectantly. She crossed her arms.

"Maybe it's a side effect a recent surgery he had. We'll have to see how much he vomited and what color it was." She proposed.

"Ask him questions, find out everything. Run an EKG."

Three doctors rose from their chairs obediently, leaving the office. Thirteen stayed firmly by the whiteboard, closing her marker and raising her eyebrows at House.

"So," House began conversationally, "if you're not going to leave to run tests, I might as well ask how the results of your blood test was."

Thirteen stiffened. "Does it matter?"

House stroked his chin thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes at her histrionically. "Or maybe you don't want me to care. Maybe there's a hidden meaning behind all of this."

She sighed.

"Two can play this game." House challenged, twirling his cane.

"What game?"

"The analytical examination of my having lunch with Wilson. You presume that maybe I didn't eat at all. Maybe I wasn't with Wilson at all. Maybe I have a life outside of gossiping with my coworkers."

"_Maybe_," Thirteen began, "you lied."

"Everybody lies," the diagnostician dismissed unimportantly, "you don't think I was with Wilson?"

"No, I think you were with Wilson."

"You don't think we had lunch?" House ventured, "because perhaps I could have poisoned his soup. That way he and Amber would be forever united in Heaven," he said dramatically, wiping a pretend tear from his eye, "even though she's probably in Hell."

Thirteen shook her head, stuffing her hands in her white hospital jacket. "Nobody eats for three hours. And nobody comforts anybody for three hours. Especially not when you there were patients waiting for you to diagnose them."

"What do you want me to say?" House asked, propping his cane up against the wall as he slumped down at his desk. "That Wilson and I are having a secret affair and that we had sex in the janitor closet? Four times?"

"I don't want you to lie about what you did with him." She said, tapping her fingernails on House's desk.

"And if you think I'm lying, you must have an idea about what we did. What did we do, Thirteen?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

House looked suspiciously up at the woman before he turned to face his computer, "I appreciate you trying to set me up with Wilson, but as much as he likes needy, damaged people, you're looking at the wrong cripple."

"Why won't you just admit that you like him?" Thirteen yelled exasperatedly.

House slowly swiveled his chair around to face her as he looked Thirteen up and down. "You have an EKG to help your coworkers do."

"You're not denying it!"

The older doctor grabbed his cane, stepping up from his desk and limping towards the door. "Thirteen, just because you swing on both sides of the fence doesn't mean everybody else does too." He admonished playfully. Thirteen jogged after him.

"I'm not wrong about this," she pressed, "aren't you at all curious?"

"Oh, of course," House said sarcastically, nodding feverishly at Thirteen, "I like adventure just as much as Indiana Jones. Asides from the fact that I don't own a whip and he doesn't have a cane we're practically brothers." He limped towards the elevator, pushing the button with the end of his cane. As the door _binged_ loudly, Thirteen stood in front of the entrance.

"Normally I wouldn't be pressuring this, but I'd like to know that you're not a man who's so screwed up he can't even love anyone anymore."

"_I_ had a wife. You should be having this conversation with Wilson. This is the second person he's slept with that's died." He prodded Thirteen away from the elevator with his cane.

"You were jealous of Amber! She was taking up all of Wilson's time that you wanted to have with him!"

"I was jealous of Amber," House played along, "but not because of Wilson. Because she had such great hair!" he pined dramatically. He hurriedly pressed the _elevator close_ button. It _binged_ again, leaving Thirteen on the other side.

"House!"

"EKG!" he yelled, just before the space between the doors shrunk into nothing.

--

"No ulcers. We checked all the linings of his stomach." Taub reported promptly.

House stared among his team, all reporting various news about the patient. Thirteen was silent, swinging her foot to an unheard beat. Everyone besides House was oblivious to the tension between them.

"When I went in to do an MRI he had a seizure. This wasn't just a small tear in the arteries." Foreman said, shaking his head.

"Who told you to do an MRI?" House chastised.

"You're not the only one in charge." The other man said firmly. House scowled.

"So we have a new symptom," he announced, turning to face the whiteboard. He froze.

On the side of the board in meticulously bold writing were the words _Denial – Resentment – Bargaining – Depression – Acceptance. _He whirred around to face Thirteen, who was grinning foolishly.

"No more marker for you." he said sternly. "These are not the patient's symptoms."

"No," she said calmly, "but they are the symptoms of another patient."

"We have two patients?" Kutner asked surprisingly.

House ignored him. "Foreman may have been right. This could easily be neurological or cardiovascular. He'll probably have another seizure soon."

"How would you–" Kutner began, but was interrupted by a sharp trilling of his beeper.

"I think that's our seizure."

All four doctors hastened from their seats.

"Thirteen," House called out, "three doctors can handle the seizure. In my office."

As they both walked to the other room, one hobbling, Thirteen ventured to ask, "So was I right?"

House ignored her. He accusingly pointed his cane at her chest. "Why are you doing this?"

She was taken aback by the question, "Why does it matter why I'm doing this?"

The diagnostician slammed his cane on his desk. Papers that had been haphazardly piled atop of one another fluttered to the ground. Thirteen winced.

"You're going to die of Huntington's and you're playing matchmaker! The only reason you're doing this is so that when you die you know that you've made a difference in the world and that you're life wasn't useless! You're _still_ going to die as big of a moron as everyone else!"

"You're going to die _alone_." Thirteen said, "I'd rather die knowing I've made somebody else happy then knowing that no one is going to be mourning over my casket."

"I'm not alone! Wilson is still my friend!"

"Just because you're friends doesn't mean you can't be more." She persisted firmly.

"Our friendship is screwed up as it is. If I push it, it's going to break."

"You don't know that!"

"Neither do you!" House yelled back, "go and help Taub and Kutner with the seizure."

As the brown-haired doctor walked silently away with one last lingering gaze, House resisted the urge to slam his cane on the desk again. He limped over to the whiteboard, staring at the words _Denial – Resentment – Bargaining – Depression – Acceptance_ like they held the answers to the future.

He really needed to find a new team.

_AN_: Good news! My birthday's coming up! Well, actually, my birthday's not until October, but because my family is going to be traveling a lot over my birthday, my mother ventured to have it celebrated over the summer. So I am. A lot of people have been asking for my address so they can send in birthday presents, and if you're a friend I've befriended over fanfiction enough that I know you well (you know who you are!) feel free to FF PM me for an email address so I can send you an address :D

Other than that, here's another update for Almost Undamaged. I'd like to thank all of the supporting reviews and story alerts/favorites this has gone under! I love you guys! :P

I want to dedicate this chapter to Paige and the Loquacious Table, who's been a wonderful friend. :D I didn't know that there was a person alive who shared as many ships as I do. She's a great girl :P


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House let his cane thud repeatedly on the soft carpet of his office. The sky outside was steadily darkening; only gentle rays of moonlight cascading into through the window blinds. His team had already gone home, mostly because House had sent them there. He couldn't take another moment with Thirteen looking suspiciously at him or raising her eyebrows every time he and Wilson walked together.

Quietly, his face grim, House stared at his whiteboard. The words _Denial – Resentment – Bargaining – Depression – Acceptance _had almost dried into the board. They were gazing at House eerily, impassively but still lifelike enough to catch the doctor's attention. As if waiting for House to sigh in defeat and erase the neatly written word _Denial_, the words stared at him. House stared back.

"Hey. Where's your team?" a voice came from the door. House faced the figure, his lips twitching into an almost-smile when he saw Wilson leaning in the doorway.

"I sent them home."

Furrowing his eyebrows together perplexedly, Wilson shook back his sleeve and stared at his wristwatch. "It's only eight. Usually they're working until midnight and you're already at home. Not the other way around."

"The difference is that I'm not going to stay here until midnight."

Wilson casually put his hands in his pockets, strolling over to his friend, "Why'd you send them home?"

House shrugged, "Patient's stable. Thirteen and Kutner kept arguing at each other, as usual Taub never said anything to do with their conversation and Foreman didn't look up from his newspaper."

"Sounds normal. Why'd you send them home?" Wilson questioned again.

"They were being annoying," House expounded logically, "just like you are right now."

Wilson knew that this was the not-so-subtle cue for him to leave, but instead he inquisitively pointed at the five words on the board. "What's this?"

"I… Thirteen has another patient she's… she's trying to fix."

"What's wrong with him?" Wilson inquired.

"Absolutely nothing," House said immediately, "I honestly think that Thirteen's just trying to suck up to her boss by trying to solve a separate case that doesn't even need solving."

"Who's the patient?"

"Jeez, Sherlock," House said irritably, snapping his head over at Wilson, "is there no secrecy in my patients anymore?"

"You just said he wasn't your patient."

"Technically, he is. I'm Thirteen's boss. If she screws up, it's in my file. If she solves a case, it's under my name. If she has a patient, it's mine." the diagnostician snatched up his cane and limped toward the door. "Is there anything else you needed?"

"The five steps from denial to acceptance? _These_ are the symptoms your patient is showing? They're medically irrelevant! Your patient _suffers_ from denial?" Wilson asked, looking incredulously at the five words.

"I wouldn't know, it's not my patient."

"But you just said_–_"

"I said _technically_ he's my patient. He's not actually my patient." House continued, grasping the door handle and holding it ajar.

"This isn't a patient, is it?" Wilson concluded, staring calculatingly into his friend's face. House shrugged.

"No, it isn't. It's Cuddy."

"_Cuddy?_"

House stared at Wilson condescendingly before leaving his office. Wilson ambled after him.

"You're an idiot."

"I take it that's a no?" Wilson offered

"Now you're an even bigger idiot." House insulted acidly.

"House, seriously, what is it?"

The older doctor turned around, stopping Wilson from shuffling after him like a dog who hadn't gotten the treat he was promised.

"Okay," House said finally, smacking his lips together, "Thirteen is under the impression that you and I are madly in love and that I cannot accept my feelings. She is attempting to play matchmaker either to kiss my ass or to feel noble before she dies of Huntington's."

There was a silence, Wilson waiting for a somewhat deeper explanation, and House was waiting for a response.

"House, I usually get most of your sarcastic jokes, but this one is just ridiculous. What is it that you can't tell your best friend?" Wilson said, brushing off House's confession as if it was a dirty apple in the pile.

"Oh, don't play the best friend card," House whined, turning around to hobble away again, "just because you're my best friend doesn't mean I tell you everything. Or that I have to."

"Fine. I'll just ask one of your staff." Wilson said, meekly throwing his hands up. He walked the opposite direction of his friend, giving one last glance to the man before he sighed and continued his trek back to his office.

House smiled in satisfaction as he limped his way out of the office and into the bitter night. Securing his bike helmet on his head, House fastened his cane at the side of his motorcycle and hopped on the seat. Wilson's immediate dismissal of even the thought of Thirteen attempting to get the two doctors to admit their undying love for one another had given House extra reassurance that Thirteen was wrong. Wilson had thought of it automatically as one of those things that House liked to joke around with when he was too ashamed of the real reason. It gave the diagnostician a strong sense of relief, as if dread was lifted off his shoulders, when he was thankfully assured that not everyone at the hospital saw a romantic connection between him and Wilson.

The motorcycle roared to life, humming noisily.

He had just started accelerating to leave the parking lot when House stopped suddenly, feet skidding on the street pavement.

Unless Wilson was ashamed of telling him the truth. Perhaps he had the same opinion as Thirteen and after hearing House's disbelieving and condescending sense about the mere idea of the two of them having a non-platonic relationship he instantly pretended to shove it off lightly. When it came to lying, Wilson was just as good as House was.

Feeling thoroughly annoyed, House sped down the dark road with a thousand thoughts flitting through his brain. If all of his theories about Wilson hiding his feelings were true, then why hadn't anybody ever said anything to him? If their relationship made everyone secretly question if they were more than friends, then why hadn't anybody asked him about it?

House let his mind scan through the list of people he was acquainted with, immediately eliminating a few candidates for the possibility of babbling to him about him and Wilson.

Kutner would have been too embarrassed to mention anything. Despite the fact that he had been hired, House knew that he was still fearful for losing his job. Setting off his boss clearly seemed like something Kutner would not be brave enough to do. That, or the new staff had not been around him long enough. Thirteen could have just been very observant.

Taub had never shown an ounce of emotion around House. He didn't ask personal questions, he didn't share unless threatened to, and he didn't analyze people's affiliation with their friends.

Foreman felt too superior in the hospital to lower himself to the level of asking House for gossip about him and Wilson. House knew that ever since he had been acclaimed parallel to House and stopped wearing hospital coats he had become pompous, and definitely wouldn't ruin his mature streak of nonchalance around House by begging for relationship news.

When Chase had worked for House, he always had agreed with him. He did anything to prove him right. And he believed everything House did. He was there when House had returned to Stacy when she was still a married woman, and then automatically assumed that House was straight. Even if Wilson and him would have walked throughout the hospital with their hips glued together as if they were magnetically drawn together by gravity, Chase would have been oblivious.

Cameron would have kept quiet if she noticed. Either she knew that House's feelings and emotions were personal, or she was too caught up in her infatuation with House to believe that he could be crushing for someone else.

And then there was Cuddy.

House screeched to a halt at a red light beaming at him through his helmet visor. He scowled.

Cuddy was the only person he knew who would confront him about Wilson. And yet, she never did. So either she didn't see what everybody else did, or Wilson told her to keep quiet about it.

Damn_ Thirteen_, House thought bitterly, once again cruising swiftly down the street, _this is absolutely ridiculous._

He did not like Wilson.

He didn't care for Wilson. Wilson was a semi-annoying friend who got hut too easily and who cared too much. That was the opposite of House. And House didn't care how many sappy romance novels there were that claimed that opposites attract because they even people out; House was convinced that he needed someone like him. Careless, witty, sarcastic, reckless, not so damn considerate about him. Someone that fit all of the requirements he had just listed.

That someone wasn't Wilson.

--

"You look like death."

"It must be this shirt," House commented wryly the next day at work, tapping his cane thoughtfully on the whiteboard, "or maybe it's the cane. It just screams Grim Reaper."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

House turned around irritably, a little aggrieved that Taub and Kutner were pushing his well-being so much. He turned to look at the female in the room who was innocently smiling, her foot swinging rhythmically to a nonexistent tune.

"Why are you so damn happy? Have sex last night?" he shot at her, who shrugged casually.

"I think _you're_ the one who had sex."

Foreman raised one eyebrow, finally listening to the conversation. Kutner looked utterly sharooshed and Taub was uncomfortably pretending to ignore them all.

House gritted his teeth together. "The reason I didn't get much sleep was because I was a nice boss and sent all of you kids home to play in the sunshine while _I_ stayed at the hospital to make sure our patient was stable."

"Who would House have sex with?" Kutner muttered underneath his breath to Taub, who stubbornly ignored him after sending him a death glare. Kutner glanced hopefully at Thirteen for an answer.

"You're not all that subtle, Kutner," House admonished at his employee, "now eyes up here. Who sees a pattern in this patient's symptoms?"

"He could have picked up a parasite. Causes the vomited blood." Foreman contributed helpfully.

"Where did he get the parasite from?"

"He traveled to Egypt just two weeks ago." Taub mentioned.

"Yes, but _he_ wasn't the one riding on _The Nile_ all week long." Thirteen gave House a pointed glare.

"Oh, that was so cliché," he said mockingly, "that joke came from the seventies."

"What is she_–_" Kutner began curiously.

"Mind out of the gutter, Kutner." House joked teasingly, pursing his lips at the man.

"My mind wasn't in_–_"

"All of you, run a tox screen." The older doctor ordered. They all filed out silently except for Thirteen, who lingered at the door.

"I'm surprised you're not pulling me away to your office to tell me off for being stubborn about this," she said smilingly, "am I guessing correctly when I say that you realized that you like Wilson?"

House shook his head, "Nope," he dismissed, "you are wrong." He said firmly.

"What makes you think that I'm wrong?"

He sat down in Taub's previous chair, hoisting his leg up the rest on the table nonchalantly. "If Wilson and I had this tension building between us, then more of the hospital would realize it. And then at least _some_ of the hospital would ask me about it. Especially Cuddy. And then please do remember that I've been married before. And that Wilson has three ex-wives."

"Why is that a bad thing?" Thirteen asked innocently, "Three strikes and you're out. For all you know he's done with the women."

"Oh, don't grasp at straws," House said sternly, "if you're going to argue with me about this at least argue a good point."

"It makes sense_–_"

House suddenly stood up, accusingly pointing his cane at the brown-haired woman. "You're in love with Taub." He said.

"What?" Thirteen said incredulously, "I don't like him."

"I don't believe you." House challenged.

"He's married."

"So? He cheats. You're attractive, he's a great plastic surgeon. He could make you even hotter. It's like a match made in heaven."

Thirteen crossed her arms, "Is this a way to let me taste my own medicine?"

"Fine. You're not in love with Taub," House concluded, "see how easy that was? Just admitting that you're wrong," When Thirteen remained silent House left her standing by the whiteboard, "go help your coworkers with the tox screen." He limped to his office, snatching his ball up from his desk with his cane. He tossed it against the wall, drawing up a chair as he leaned against the back of it silently. As the ball threw itself back, House deftly caught it in his fingers, chucking it at the wall again.

He didn't like Wilson. Wilson didn't like him. They both were happy being straight, being friends, being part of an already screwed up relationship. At least as happy as House could be.

Besides, Wilson would never go for a damaged man. Only Cameron would do something like that. Wilson liked the fully fixed or irreparably broken. And House knew that he could be fixed if he had the will to let himself be. He was damaged.

Practically almost undamaged, though.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

"This is the second time this week that you're paying for our meals. I can't help but be suspicious that you're on to something, House."

House shrugged innocently, cutting off a piece from his steak and chewing on it contemplatively. "Why do you always automatically assume that I'm an ass?"

Wilson tilted his head at the tablecloth, "Because you are," he told him wryly, "the last time you tried to do something nice you had dosed my coffee and almost killed me."

"I didn't _kill_ you." House said exhaustingly, shaking his head at the ceiling.

"Seriously. Why are you paying for dinner? Did you… what, poison my food?" Wilson accused suspiciously, guardedly pointing at his plate.

"Yes, Wilson," the older doctor played along sardonically, "I have a deal with this restaurant."

The brown-haired man grudgingly cut into his food, still apprehensive as he took his first bite, "Are you going to run out of here halfway through so then I'll end up having to pay?"

"Damn," House grumbled sarcastically, "Wilson, you ruined my plan!"

"It's just…" Wilson pressed, "you paid for lunch the other day. And now you're paying for dinner?"

"It's not that expensive." He shrugged.

"Doesn't matter! Greg House doesn't pay for things if he doesn't have to!"

House shrugged unimportantly, taking a sip from his glass. "So," he switched topics casually, "Did you end up asking somebody on my team about my whiteboard?"

"No," Wilson said, "I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

"It's not," House agreed, "but you always make things into a big deal."

Wilson looked slightly bothered as he dropped his utensils exasperatedly. "Okay," he began slowly, "I'm going to change the topic to something more agreeable. And then you're going to be polite again."

"All right, Mommy." The diagnostician mocked sweetly.

"How's your patient been doing?"

"What patient?"

"The one with the vomiting." Wilson supplied helpfully.

"Oh," House said, nodding, "Gastritis Guy."

"He has gastritis?"

"No," the older man shook his head, "but it was something that we had discussed as an option. How's it going in the oncology ward?"

Wilson sighed, "The same. There are just too many people dying in my life." He said despondently, avoiding his friend's gaze.

"I'm still here." House said indignantly.

"Don't act hurt," the brown-haired man admonished sourly, scowling, "I know you're not."

House shrugged, cutting further into his steak. "You know what they say," he said in a pretentiously wise voice, "all good things must end."

"Yes, but must they all _snowball_ to an end?" Wilson rested his forehead on his palm, supporting his arm on his elbow exhaustingly.

"Poor Wilson," House sympathized sardonically, "the teddy bear is down."

"Shut up, House," Wilson snapped bitterly, "why are you only friendly in little doses? Can't you just be nice for a day's worth of time?"

"My niceness is limited," House said stiffly, "during this past week you've already used up what I would normally spend on you in half a year. If you expect more you'll be forking over the cash."

"So… you charge for your pleasantness?"

"Of course. How else would I make money? I've already made a fortune off of Cuddy." House said with a satisfied and sarcastic smirk.

Wilson rolled his eyes, sighing. "Don't you ever get miserable being miserable?"

"That's totally an oxymoron, Wilson."

The younger doctor raised his eyebrows seriously, inquisitively eyeing House for an answer.

"Wilson," House began, "when all you ever felt was pain, it doesn't hurt anymore."

"I can't tell you how often I think about how different you would be if your leg would be human again and Stacy and you were still married. I think we could actually have normal conversations."

"You really shouldn't be judging my divorce," House said pointedly, "you're taking over New Jersey with this marriage fetish."

"It's not a _fetish_, House."

"I'll bet you fifty bucks that you'll get married again by the end of the year."

"I wouldn't mind taking that," Wilson said broodingly, "I'm not in a very… marriage-mood right now." He gloomily picked at his food.

"This isn't the first death you've ever been through, Wilson. And in the past you weren't so stiff about it either. Besides, there are always fish in the sea. This time you should steer clear of the sharks."

Furiously, the oncologist dropped his silverware, looking cantankerous enough to march out of the restaurant, "Would you just for _once_ be supportive for a friend and not be such a damn robot with your feelings?" he growled.

"Jesus, I woke the beast."

"You are the _wrong_ person to have this conversation with," Wilson dismissed, his hands going up defensively as he got out of his chair, "if you ever fall in love again, maybe we can try to pick up this conversation where we left it off."

House looked revoltingly up at his friend, "Sit down and don't be such a drama queen. It's really quite embarrassing." He murmured the last part sarcastically, pretending to shamefully hide his face behind the dessert menu. By the time that House had peered up above it again, Wilson was striding away from the table. House scowled.

"I hope you know that this is the last time I'll be paying for your food!" he shouted after the brown-haired doctor noisily. Other couples and families eating nearby looked uneasily at House and the abandoned seat in front of him.

"It's his time of the month again." He explained to them all, pointing disapprovingly after Wilson's disappearing figure.

--

"What is this?" Thirteen asked amusingly, a smile soaking through her voice.

House abandoned the whiteboard and walked over to where Thirteen was hovering over his desk with something resting in her hand. He snarled at her, snatching the item from her grasp.

"When did you sneak away from the table?" he asked suspiciously, staring to the discussion chairs where Kutner, Taub, and Foreman were all curiously watching out of the corner of their eyes. "We were just in the middle of a differential diagnosis for the Bleeding Boy."

Thirteen raised her eyebrows at the object now nestled protectively in House's palm. "You bought Wilson lunch?"

"He's been avoiding me. Normally I wouldn't mind, but Wilson writes my vicodin prescription and my bottle's almost empty."

"So you bought him lunch?"

"Yes. Wilson is very easy to bribe. Like the dog. Dangle some bacon and he bounds straight up." House firmly put the packaged sandwich he had been holding into his desk drawer along with the note pinned to the top. It included the sandwich's receipt, House having written _You can't ignore me forever!_ on the bottom in red marker.

He hobbled back to the whiteboard, twirling the marker in his fingers.

"So now we have a new symptom. He's twitching at random moments, can anybody tell me why?" House inquired to his team, a bit frustrated when he turned around to see Thirteen still not deposited in her seat. "Thirteen, it's very amateur to snoop around your boss's desk when he's only a few feet away."

The brown-haired doctor returned to her chair reluctantly, sighing.

"Uh," Kutner spoke up, still looking intriguingly into House's office to see what the two doctors were quarreling over. "Well, um, it's probably just a mild allergic reaction to the meds we were giving him."

"All right, well, that's the boring version," House brushed off unimportantly, "let's assume that it's not. Twitching doesn't mix with vomiting blood and seizures. But oddly enough, those two symptoms don't mix together to fit one disease either. So… do we have multiple conditions?"

"Are you saying that he has three separate diseases?" Foreman asked doubtfully.

House ignored him, staring expectantly at his other doctors. When they were all silent, he sighed, turning to the whiteboard. "Apparently you're all still in third grade. Should we make a Venn diagram?" he asked them all in a simpering, sugar-coated voice as he drew three overlapping circles on the board and marked arrows to connect the symptoms to the circles.

"We can also mix twitching and seizures or just twitching and vomiting blood. Only two different diseases." Taub brought up.

"Bingo," House nodded approvingly, leisurely capping and uncapping his marker, "now, twitching and seizures are generally in the same category. One is just a little bit more severe than the other."

"House, that's ridiculous–" Foreman said immediately.

"Force a seizure out of him and take him off his meds. See if he still twitches." House instructed, and the moment that his team members were on their feet and shuffling out the door, he hobbled to his desk and took out his concealed gift. He hastily limped over to the oncology ward and burst through Wilson's door.

"Don't you ever knock?" Wilson said irritably, knitting his eyebrows together as he frowned at House.

"I always hope that if I don't give you any warning I can catch you doing something you're not supposed to be," House grinned sarcastically, thrusting the wrapped sandwich to his friend, who took it reluctantly.

"What is this?" Wilson asked immediately, holding the meal a safe foot away from his body.

"My privates in tissue paper." The diagnostician said, beaming eerily. He took a seat in front of Wilson's desk. Wilson edgily looked at the note stapled to the top.

"This is a receipt for food." He said, staring at the contents of the piece of paper before sighing at the statement boldly standing out on the bottom in piercing red ink. "I thought you said that the last time you would pay for my food was that dinner last night."

"Everybody lies," House shrugged noncommittally, "If you're not going to eat the food I'm going to steal it from you."

"Did you do that when you were a kid? Steal your parent's food just to make them angry?" Wilson said suspiciously before unwrapping the meal and taking a tentative bite.

"I'm not only here to deliver food," House said, leaning closer to the desk, "Wilson, I'm not miserable."

"Don't give me the 'all you've ever felt was pain' speech," Wilson pleaded, holding up a hand and shutting his eyes firmly, "House, just admit that you're life is as good as your leg is."

"I don't need love to be happy. Maybe to you, commitment is the recipe to contentment but I don't need that for satisfaction."

"House, the most romantic interaction you ever have is having a cheap hooker over for an hour every week."

"That's all I need." House said smugly, smirking, "after there are _four_ ex-Mrs. Wilson's you'll agree with me."

"House, sex is just a desperate attempt to seek out affection if you're not in love with the other person."

House scowled, "Oh, don't get deep on me. You've run through about seven _The Ones_ in your life. I only had to run through one to realize that true love is a bunch of crap. _Love_ is a bunch of crap." He grabbed his cane, getting up from the chair and limping over to the door. "Enjoy your free food while it lasts."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "Sometimes I'm ashamed to call you my friend, House."

"Likewise, Jimmy."


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House grumbled with a groan of suppressed pain as he limped cane-lessly to his bed with his fingers curled firmly around his thigh for support. He lifted the covers and slid into the bed, sighing tiredly into his pillow.

The doctor closed his eyes, rolling onto his side restlessly as he tried to fruitlessly get comfortable in his bed.

Wilson's words were still booming throughout his head like an unnecessary and extremely annoying announcer during a baseball game.

House had grown up being miserable. Why should it bother him now? Why should he pine for a relationship with a friend or a healthier lifestyle? If he began treating himself with one thing, he should treat himself with rehab and doing clinic hours for Cuddy and actually working on improving his people skills.

He wasn't going to do any of that.

Besides. Thirteen didn't even know what she was talking about.

With that somewhat comforting thought, House drifted into an uneasy sleep.

--

By the time that House had woken up, he was already an hour late for work. He scowled sourly at the blinking clock on his nightstand, bright red neon colors flashing into his face like eerie red eyes.

He grunted as he got up, snatching up his cane and limping over to his wardrobe. He was dressed and ready in ten minutes, still having the patience to make himself a small breakfast before he headed to the hospital.

By the time that House had managed to arrive and hobble hastily towards his office, he was extremely late but surprisingly still discreet enough to not be caught in one of Cuddy's lectures about his startling lack of care about his job. He hurried to his desk, grabbing the coffee that Wilson had left him for the morning and heading towards the discussion table. His team looked expectantly at their boss, smiling innocently.

Almost too innocently. Almost too sweetly.

Almost too _perfectly_.

When House turned to the whiteboard, the nagging words of the five steps to acceptance were gone. The only thing dirtying the canvas was a thorough list of symptoms Kutner had supplied helpfully.

"So. New patient." House mumbled. "Vomiting Voyager took off?"

"We discharged him last night after we gave him the meds you told us to give him. We told you yesterday."

House raised an eyebrow suspiciously, whirling around to stare at the four doctors. "I didn't tell you to give him meds," automatically, the doctor turned to glare at Foreman's usually smug form, "Foreman." He grumbled.

"What? It wasn't my idea. Where _were_ you yesterday, have you entirely forgotten what happened?"

Though he didn't dare show it, House was deeply troubled. Worriedly, he ran through his mind the last memory he could recall. He prayed that this wasn't just another brain malfunction, like the one he suffered during the bus accident. This was happening _too_ frequently for his liking.

"Uh," he mumbled underneath his breath, facing the board again. Various symptoms, ranging from labored breathing to mild paralysis, scattered themselves across the white. House felt as though his brain was twirling itself into a tornado like a wash cloth being rung out while he tried to sort out his memories. "Looks a lot like a parasite. Do a tox screen."

"But–" Taub protested helplessly.

"Now." House commanded, still staring puzzlingly at the whiteboard as he pressed the cool cap of his marker to his chin.

The sound of scraping chairs was background noise to House. He was surprised to not hear one doctor lingering behind to pester him about Wilson. When the diagnostician slowly turned to see if Thirteen was still sitting in her chair, he furrowed his eyebrows together suspiciously when he saw no one. Raking a hand gingerly through his hair, House barely even felt his fingertips brush against his scalp as he hurried back to his desk to slump down into his chair and scour his pockets for vicodin. When he found an empty bottle he grumbled exasperatedly, furiously hunting through his cabinets for another one.

Just at that moment, Wilson sauntered through the door, putting his hands on his hips as he approached his friend's desk.

"Wilson! I'm out of vicodin." House barked, still looking cantankerously through the drawers.

"Not the greeting I was hoping for, but I guess I shouldn't have expected more. Greg House is still Greg House no matter what happens."

House peered up from his frantic search, staring at Wilson. _Greg House is still Greg House no matter what happens_. So that concluded that something had definitely happened to him and that this sudden loss of memory was not a stroke of insanity. He eyed the younger doctor determinedly.

"Wilson, I can't remember what happened." House said bluntly, not attempting to preserve his dignity by pretending that he wasn't aging and that his memory was in top shape.

Wilson looked flabbergasted. "You… you can't remember?"

"I don't remember treating my patient or getting home. I don't remember what day it is today." House admitted, trying not to let his concealed fear show in his confession.

Wilson gaped, staring at the floor.

"Why are you so upset?" House snapped, looking peeved.

"House, don't you think that _I_ was involved in the past that you can't remember as well?" Wilson retorted crossly.

House stared curiously in Wilson's fear-filled chocolate eyes that were desperately avoiding House's blue ones, "What the hell happened to you?" he asked softly, narrowing his eyes in contemplation. Amber's funeral? Maybe a friendly fight that occurred every Friday between them? House couldn't think of anything that would be out of the norm.

Like a poorly constructed slideshow, pieces of the puzzles fell into place with distorted flashes in House's brain. Thirteen not hectoring him this morning – Wilson expecting a different greeting – House stared up at Wilson.

The older doctor didn't fear rejection. He grabbed his cane and stood up, ready to try out his experiment. He neared Wilson and in a heartbeat he grabbed the other man's face and pressed their mouths together. Almost like it was a natural movement, Wilson wound his arms around House and pushed himself closer, desperate for more contact.

House pulled away, not having been entirely unresponsive but still impassive enough. He narrowed his eyes even more suspiciously, tilting his head as he stared at his breathless friend. He cut off Wilson's soon-to-be-spoken words.

"That's what happened," he concluded quietly, "that's what happened between us." It wasn't a question.

Wilson blinked perplexedly, "You remember?"

"No," House responded instantly, moving away from the oncologist and examining the calendar pinned up on the nearby wall carefully. "Did this happen yesterday?"

"Y-Yes." Wilson replied, still taken aback.

"Who started it? Was it me or was it you?"

"You," the other man answered dutifully, "you came into my office and told me all about Thirteen nagging you and how you were starting to feel differently about me."

"What did you say?" House grilled.

"I told you that I couldn't believe you," a fond look had flitted over Wilson's face as he recalled the memories, "and that you were too miserable to feel feelings for anyone. But then you kissed me. That's the first time in a long time that I felt that you were actually human again. I kissed you back and that's where this evolved from."

House felt a surging urge to kiss Wilson again and feel that burning heat almost radiating off of his friend. It was heat like he hadn't feel in a long time. It almost took the pain away.

Before Wilson could continue his speech, House had snatched his tie and pulled him closer, holding him firmly at the hips before crashing their mouths together. Once again, it only took Wilson a second to comply before he responded, more hungrily this time that House was fully responding. The younger man dug his nails into House's neck at the hem of his hair, the other hand firmly attached to his graying locks.

House was more than stunned. Wilson was the epitome of tenderness and consideration. House's doubts were previously that Wilson would be too soft for him. Someone like him would never be able to handle maintaining someone as terribly broken as House. But now he had reasons to doubt his doubts with the way that Wilson was furiously replying to his kiss, like a famished animal devouring what was claimed theirs. It was much more passionate than it was gentle. _This_ was the kind of Wilson that House had been hoping to stir out of him since the moment they had met. Something outside of the teddy bear exterior. House had always had more appreciation for the oncologist when he was angry than when he was content. And when Wilson kissed, it was like he pouring livid heat out of him strong enough to infuriate someone to be raging.

House's cane clattered to the floor.

And that abrupt movement was what woke House up.

--

His eyes had flickered open from his intense, seemingly real dream.

Instantly House's hand darted out to his nightstand to grab his bottle of vicodin. He had swallowed the remains of the bottle in a matter of a few seconds, rubbing soothingly at his temples.

House scowled at the ceiling. He had never believed that his dreams were his subconscious trying to tell him a burden of his mind, but this had felt too real to be just another thoughtless dream. There had been no accident that had made House forget the last few days in his dream. The loss of memory was from loss of living. It was almost sinister.

The diagnostician licked at his lips as though he was still feeling the heat of another mouth pressed against them. _Wilson's_ mouth. A tingle ran down his spine.

But it didn't matter if House would blame this dream on his subconscious or not. He could no longer deny that he had feelings for his friend.

Oh, shit.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

It took House every ounce of strength he possessed the next morning not to completely ignore his job and continue sleeping. If his dreams were full of the things he had experienced last night oh-so-vividly he would much rather prefer the latter; live in his monotonous reality or to live in his dreams. Or nightmares. He wasn't quite sure anymore after that very cruel abrupt ending last night.

Everything he did was lackluster in energy. Normally House wouldn't think that this sort of emotion would affect him much. But this time he didn't have a guarantee on whether or not if his feelings were unrequited. Wilson was a friend. It was like playing with your mother's most expensive vase. Why not play with the cheap, dull one?

_Because it's more fun to play with the more valuable one_.

Only if you're even allowed to play with it. House's head was filled with over a million replies that Wilson could say if House would confess his infatuation to him. Not all of them were positive. Most of them weren't, but that was only because House had always been a pessimistic person. A don't eat-it-until-you've-bought-it sort of player.

Where the hell had his confidence gone? He was a cocky bastard and always had his egotism shining through his fear. Why didn't he just settle with the thought he wanted to believe in, that Wilson shared his feelings and that it wasn't impossible for someone to love House even after everything he'd been through?

He wasn't going to test his thoughts, no matter how much of a burning ambition he had to fulfill the aching sensation of satisfaction and knowing the truth. But House didn't want humiliation. It had been hard enough with Stacy, and now he felt as though Wilson was even more important. There was a lot more to lose. It was riskier. It was here goes everything, and House would never be fully prepared to do that to himself.

The doctor struggled into his pants, ignoring the sting that was strangely more prominent in his leg than usual. He hastily grabbed for his cane, feeling relief in his aching thigh as he lifted its pressure from the floor. He sighed, staring at the ground dully.

House limped over to his nightstand, grabbing his vicodin bottle and swallowing its remnants. A low groan escaped from his lips as the pills paraded down his throat bumpily. He swallowed on his tongue before hastening out of the door without even a scrap of breakfast.

House wasn't sure if eyeing Wilson at the prescription counter with his first step into the hospital was a good thing or not. Trying to skirt past him and use avoidance for the next few months to wait for his infatuation to simmer down didn't seem like a plausible plan, seeing as Wilson would attempt to hunt him down eventually and if that turned into a race down the hospital halls House knew that he would lose terribly. So the only option left was to put Wilson's feelings into test with the subtlest way he knew how.

Flirting.

Being the arrogant ass he was, House would easily be able to pass off as a sarcastic tease should Wilson question his intentions with a repulsive attitude. House knew that others might think that it would be too early to thrust Wilson into such an awkward situation with his friend so soon after Amber's death, but in House's opinion the wounded never learned to heal unless they were thrown into more battles. More wounds, more cuts, more scrapes. It's not like House was approaching him with a samurai sword or a butcher knife. Only something like a regular butter knife.

House smirked to himself.

He never thought that his crush could turn out to be fun.

He winked suggestively at Wilson as he passed the younger doctor at the prescription counter.

"Hey House," Wilson greeted tiredly, raking a hand through his hair and tapping his fingernails impatiently on the countertop.

"Morning, Jimmy," House rapidly switched directions, limping over to his friend, "I hope you got that shirt at half price." He plucked his fingers at Wilson's sleeve, raising his eyebrows at the brown-haired man.

Wilson ignored him, picking up the bottle of pills the pharmacist handed him with a thankful smile, "You're always such a peach in the morning, do you know that?" he scowled at his friend before strolling off to his office. House followed him.

"Want lunch today?" he offered.

"Why? Am I paying or are your parents in town?" Wilson pursed his lips at the other doctor, putting his hands on his hips crossly.

"You do that too often," House observed, pointing at Wilson's tall stance and fingers against his hipbone.

Wilson sighed, turning on his heel and continuing to his office.

There was a still a faint memory flitting in House's mind, including nothing short of gentle lips doing much more than what they looked capable of, chocolate brown eyes staring holes into the floor, hands in his hair and on his hips and his neck and everywhere else –

"Wilson," House called, limping forward a few more steps, "want coffee?"

Wilson smiled hesitantly before giving a reluctant nod and following House to the coffee machines located at the end of the hall from House's office. House let his eyes glance into his glass walls, seeing his team all looking indignantly after the two doctors strolling down the hall. Foreman was staring nastily after them, as though he was hoping he would draw House into the office with his intimidating and impatient glare, Taub was raising his eyebrows after the two and Kutner was frowning after his boss. Thirteen was the only content one at the table, beaming after House and Wilson through the glass. House snarled at them before hobbling along.

He wasn't surprised to hear Foreman jogging out after them.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded, "we've been waiting in there forever and you're wasting your time with Wilson?"

"No, I'd only be wasting my time if I'd be spending it with you." House said sternly, cocking his head toward his office as though indicating for Foreman to relocate himself in his chair again.

"Fine. I guess I'll be the one to take charge over this case." Foreman said, storming back into the office.

"Hey, I am spending all the morsels of time I can with my boyfriend before the vicodin kills me!" House wailed dramatically after the man's disappearing back, laughing at Kutner's horrified expression as he heard House's histrionic outburst through the glass.

Wilson sighed, "One of these days they're going to believe your sarcastic jokes," he looked shiftily over at his friend, "even though they're not even that funny."

The diagnostician snatched up the first plastic coffee cup before Wilson could, holding it underneath the dispenser.

"I was just about to grab that one," Wilson said heatedly, reaching for the next cup.

"Don't be so greedy."

"That's me." Wilson rolled his eyes, nudging House away from the machine when he was finished. "Sugar?" he offered the small packets to his friend, who shook his head.

"Just stick your finger in it." The older man said sardonically, smiling faintly when he saw a flicker of an indescribable expression flit on Wilson's face.

"Har har." He muttered, emptying the sugar into his own cup. "Is there any reason why you're being a little flirty towards me this morning?"

"You're just enjoying it," House teased, stirring his coffee languidly.

"Next thing I know you'll be checking out my ass."

"As you wish," House shrugged, giving another roguish wink to his friend when he groaned.

"Your games are getting more and more ridiculous." Wilson admonished, shaking his head at the coffee machine.

"Don't pretend you don't like it," he said huskily, "I haven't seen you flirt with the new nurses by the elevator for quite a long time now."

Wilson glared at him. "Thanks for the coffee." He clapped House on the shoulder before continuing down the hall to his own office. The diagnostician smiled after him.

"See you at lunch."

By the time Wilson had swiveled around to look inquisitively at his friend, House had already hobbled off to his office and was bursting through the door to interrupt his team's discussion.

"Gooood Morning!" he sang cheerfully, snatching his whiteboard marker out of Foreman's poised fingers.

"Where have you been?" Taub asked irritatingly.

"Canada," House replied, erasing some of the diagnosis ideas Foreman had jotted down on the board, "the fishing is great this time of year."

"With the way you're constantly late I'm thinking of just coming in to work at noon." Foreman chastised stonily, grumbling as he took his seat again.

"Excellent," House beamed, "that gives me an excuse to fire you." he whirled around to face his other three employees.

"Our patient started getting a horrible rash yesterday when we took him off the meds. There was no seizure from the_–_"

House wasn't really paying attention as he stared at the five stages of acceptance. He turned around, eyeing Thirteen suspiciously, expecting her to be following his gaze to the words.

"Can anyone say sex?" House volunteered, turning around to face his team. They all stared at one another uncomfortably before furrowing their brows at House.

"Uh, is that rhetorical?" Kutner asked awkwardly.

"Sex!" House yelled, "Check for STDs and see if this guy cooks with a colander or not."

"Uh – what?" Foreman questioned.

The older doctor sighed when he realized no one had understood his metaphor. He glowered at them. "See if he uses a condom," he muttered, "Jesus, have none of you ever worked in the kitchens at your college dorm rooms?"

After all of the doctors had filed out, House smirked at the whiteboard, tossing his eraser from one hand to the other before gently reaching down and getting rid of word _Denial_ with one swipe.

At least he knew he had a problem now.

--

"Aren't you supposed to be doing clinic duty?"

House briefly glanced up at the door before he turned his attention back to the TV mounted up on the wall. He fingered his chips bag before snacking on another piece leisurely.

"Yes."

Wilson dropped his hands from his hips with a sigh, strolling into the room and drawing up a chair next to House.

"You have got to stop watching TV in coma patient rooms. It's a little disturbing."

"What?" House acrimoniously said , "I'm doing it for them. They still have brainwaves. This way they can still process the magic of television without actually having to see some of these actor's hideous faces." He grimaced up at the screen before popping another chip into his mouth. When Wilson reached over to steal one from the bag himself, House yanked it away promptly.

"What?" Wilson said, "you steal from me all the time."

"Yes. But you don't steal from the crippled."

Wilson tutted, staring up at the television. "I know you like soap operas," he comprehended slowly, "but since when do you watch the romantic ones?"

"Ever since they brought the hot actresses on General Hospital."

House knew that it was extremely lame and pathetic of him, especially since all of the confessions on soap operas were cheesy and made House want to groan out of frustration, but it was the only way he could really come up for ideas to tell Wilson that he felt something non-platonic toward him. He definitely did not have enough romantic imagination within himself alone.

"All right…" Wilson said slowly, looking uneasily at the unconscious man behind him. He stared at the monitor hitched up on the wall to examine the patient's brainwaves and heartbeat.

"Would you relax?" House snapped, "he's in a damn coma, he's not taking a lunchtime nap. Besides, it's not like we're hospital crashers. We _work_ here."

"Yeah," Wilson tentatively agreed, staring up at the TV screen. "Are we still up for lunch today?"

House glared at Wilson, "I'll pay only on one condition," he muttered, "you get the cheapest salad on the menu and nothing else."

The oncologist shrugged, "Fine." He said softly.

No more than five seconds passed when House heard the clicking sound of the television being turned off. Both he and Wilson abruptly turned to see Cuddy standing in the doorway, glaring disapprovingly at both of them.

"Clinic duty, now," she ordered firmly to House before turning to Wilson, "Wilson, did you not know he was supposed to be in the clinic?"

House sighed in defeat, grabbing his cane, "Well, at least she didn't catch us having sex in the janitor closet, eh, Wilson?" he said to Wilson before limping out of the room.

"What the hell was that about?" he faintly heard Cuddy ask Wilson. House swayed in the doorway, lingering to hear his friend's response.

"It's just the vicodin talking." Wilson murmured, running a hand through his hair. House smiled to his feet before he grasped his cane firmer and continued shambling down the hall.

Sometimes he wished it really only was the vicodin talking.

"Hi!"

House almost jumped back a step when he saw Thirteen jump in front of him, beaming. "So I saw the board."

"Figured out we have a patient dying?" House asked dryly, giving her a I-Will-Have-Your-Skull-Seared-For-Lunch-So-I-Do-Not-Have-To-Pay-For-Wilson's-Damn-Salad glare from the corner of his eye.

"So you're not in denial anymore?" she sounded way too excited for House's liking. He rolled his eyes, attempting to lose Thirteen on his way to clinic duty.

"Thirteen, you need to find a boyfriend. Just because your own love life is as dry as the desert doesn't mean that everyone else's is too." House scoffed, slamming the exam room door in her face as he snatched up the blue patient file hanging in the plastic pouch outside the door.

There were some things that were worse than clinic duty.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House stared at his coarse and matured face, gray at the edges and sharp at the middles. He tilted his head to the side, running his fingertips on his steadily thickening stubble. He gave a considerate look to the rarely used shaver on the sink and the shaving cream that was acquiring dust. House remembered a few years ago when Wilson had mentioned that he looked better shaven, so with a reckless shrug the doctor grabbed the instrument and the bottle, spraying the foam into his palm.

Halfway through his shaving, House had already gotten himself three minor cuts on his cheek and one unnoticeable one on his chin that despite being unrecognizable burned like hell. He cursed at the razor, giving the blades a disapproving glower.

By the time House had finished his grooming, half of the previously full shaving cream bottle was empty. He shook it vigorously before depositing it back on the shelf and hastily rinsing off his face. By the time he checked the softly ticking clock hung on the bathroom wall, the diagnostician had only fifteen minutes to get to dinner on time. Or at least what House considered on time, which was roughly ten minutes late.

He grabbed his jacket from the hanger and swiftly reached for the door handle when there was an abrupt knock on the door.

House knew that knock.

He strolled over to the bathroom to undo his belt buckle, letting Wilson wait at the door. There was another rap at the door, this time louder. House stifled his laugh as he continued to undress.

"House? Are you in there?"

House threw off his socks and shoes and tossed his cane to stand by the couch. He again ignored the door and threw off his jacket, prepared to execute part two of his Operation Seduce Wilson.

"House, I know you're in there."

House knew that Wilson had keys. And the fact that the man wouldn't resort to coming in without being willingly accepted in until he was positively sure that House wouldn't answer the door himself let the older doctor have even more time to prepare his plan. He grinned as he threw off his shirt as well and tossed it onto the wooly bathroom rug.

"Either you ignored our plans for dinner and went out to do something else or you're just not letting me in, but either way you're an ass." There was another knock on the door, feeble and meek and defeated. Finally House heard the jingle of metal against metal and the clicking noise of keys in the lock. He hastily removed his pants and snatched up the towel on the rack nearby, wrapping it around his waist. His entire appearance of just now stepping from the shower would be much more believable if House's hair or body was slick with shower steam, but if his plan went well Wilson wouldn't be focusing on the water.

Just as the first hesitant footstep was heard on the threshold, House promptly departed the bathroom and limped cane-lessly to the kitchen, stopping when he saw Wilson in the doorway.

"House."

He couldn't keep from smirking as he saw Wilson's eyes rake over his body like a scanner, his gaze hungry but yet still rapid as he immediately met his friend's eyes almost guiltily.

"Hey." House greeted shortly.

"You're not even dressed yet? Did you forget entirely about dinner?" Wilson snapped.

"Hey, I shaved! Give me some credit." He motioned towards his cheeks indignantly.

"Yes, and not very well apparently," Wilson noticed, squinting as he observed the tiny cuts still fresh on House's face. He cautiously took a step forward, moving House's face to the left by his chin, examining the scratches concernedly.

"It's fine." House muttered, very aware of the two fingers Wilson had positioned on his chin, feeling a palpitating in his heart that he definitely shouldn't be feeling from such a simple touch. He mentally chastised himself, knowing that Greg House was not behaving like Greg House. If the heart that was about to beat out of his chest could speak, it would be squealing like a silly little schoolgirl.

Greg House was _not_ a silly little schoolgirl.

He roughly pushed Wilson's hand away, touching his cheek tenderly and wincing at the contact of his fingertips to his cuts. His mind was halfway between wanting to step as far away from Wilson as possible to not make his time harder than it already was or snatching Wilson's hand back and pressing it against the forlorn yet warm patch of skin on his chin.

"Don't do that," Wilson admonished, swatting the older doctor's hand away from his cheek and putting his hands on his hips sternly. "Get dressed or we'll miss our reservations."

"You made _reservations_?" House scoffed, "we don't need reservations. Only the fancy restaurants need reservations and only dates are for the fancy restaurants."

Wilson sighed as he sat down on his friend's couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Stop twisting my words and overanalyzing everything, House."

House hobbled to the bathroom, grabbing his pants. He stuck his head out from the doorway, "Come to mention it, you're wearing shined shoes."

"So?"

"Again, shined shoes are for the dates. Is that what I am?" House smiled to himself as he threw his shirt on, reaching for his cane.

"For the sake of both of our sanity I'm going to ignore that question." Wilson stood up from the couch when he saw that House was dressed, handing him his cane. "Are you coming or not?"

"Yes, dear." House said monotonously, giving Wilson an effeminate flutter of the eyelashes before he limped over to the door. "After you."

"Who's paying?"

"You are."

"Oh," Wilson said dully, "that's nice."

"I didn't bring my wallet." House reasoned logically, smugly smirking.

"I – you know what, never mind." The brown-haired man sighed, shaking his head, "I'll pay."

House was glad that today was Friday. As far as he was concerned, he saw too much of Wilson at work to bode well with his growing infatuation, and the weekend was two days when he could escape from his emotional fiasco.

At least a little bit.

"You don't have to be so grumpy all the time," Wilson said gruffly when House had remained silent for the whole walk to the car. "Today's Friday. Don't you like Fridays?"

"No," House replied instantly, giving Wilson a sideways glance, "too close to Mondays."

Wilson shook his head, climbing into the car and pushing the keys into the ignition. "For you the glass is always half empty."

The diagnostician waggled his finger at his friend, "Ahh, now Wilson," he said thoughtfully, "the optimist thinks the glass is half full, the futurist thinks that the liquid should be on the other half of the glass, the psychiatrist asks what people's mothers think about the glass's quantity, the philosopher thinks that the glass is nor half full nor half empty, and the drinker thinks that the glass needs more ice. We can choose our perspectives, but I think the sanest answer among these is that it's half empty."

Wilson frowned, backing out of his parking spot, "That's your problem, House," he muttered, "you're so fixated on the negative that you can't even see if there's something good in front of you. Which is why you don't have a life or a wife or anything that matters to you. The only thing you care about is not caring."

House stared at Wilson darkly. The schoolgirl part of him wanted to rid his chest of this hidden burden and confess to his friend that he _did_ care, and that he cared about _Wilson_. He wanted to be bitter and sardonic just because he knew that Wilson didn't feel the same way and ask how it felt to hold Greg House's heart, because he doesn't usually sell it leisurely on the Internet. He knew that the glass was half empty, so why should he pretend that it was half full?

The schoolgirl protested.

There was still a flaming desire to admit his feelings, just so he wouldn't come off as a careless, robotic monster that felt no pain and felt no hurt, but his logical reasoning was overpowering his want for romance, or in a possible case, rejection.

The reasonable side of his brain kicked in and he promptly removed his gaze from Wilson, staring at the lantern illuminated road impassively.

"Because when you don't care you don't have the danger of becoming hurt." He answered simply, not even bothering to tempt himself by seeing Wilson's expression. House reached for his vicodin bottle moodily.

"House," Wilson asked quietly, "are you afraid to fall in love or something? Are you afraid of getting rejected?" the oncologist looked scrutinizingly at his friend.

House stared stonily at the road, fearful to meet Wilson's gaze. He shook the medicine bottle in his hand, sighing as it rattled noisily.

"You just ran a red light." House observed, pointing coolly to the road.

Wilson immediately returned his gaze to the street, changing the subject.

There had been no red light.

But House just wasn't ready to answer a question like that.

--

"Would either of you gentlemen care for dessert?" the waiter asked smoothly, wiggling a tempting menu in front of their faces, "the lemon cream cake is our special today."

House grunted. If there was one thing he hated it was the salesman waiters, trying to advertise the lumpy and over-sweetened tiramisus and ice creams.

He pulled a sharooshed expression, swatting away the menu, "Allergic to sugar," he bluffed slickly, "I'll just have some more garlic bread!"

Wilson accepted the menu, leafing through it briefly, "I like the strawberry cheesecake. Sounds good."

"Dr. Wilson," House said gruffly, giving a distant look to the waiter, "may I speak with you behind my menu please?"

The waiter took the hint, shuffling off awkwardly.

"What is it, House?"

"Why would you order dessert in such a cheap place? You might as well make cake from the stuff in my fridge."

"There's practically nothing in your fridge." Wilson said shiftily.

"Exactly," he winked.

Wilson rolled his chocolate brown eyes irritably, "That's just like you," he said tiredly, "I get the dessert, you just get another serving of an appetizer."

The older doctor tilted his head, considering the thought. In a way, it was incongruously true. He was the salt and Wilson was the sugar. And quite frankly, when House put them together in one dish, it was horrible. The ratio was uneven. It was bitter and ugly.

He glanced at Wilson uneasily.

Just like their relationship would be.

He hurriedly cleared his throat, momentarily hiding behind his glass as he took a deep gulp, wishing he had ordered something alcoholic.

"House?" Wilson asked softly, "House, are you all right?"

The diagnostician smiled distantly, nodding, "Yeah," he replied shortly, "excuse me."

"What's going on?"

House smirked, "Do you want to follow me to tinker town?" he inquired, throwing his napkin onto his chair before hobbling off to the restrooms.

He pressed his forehead against the cool of one of the bathroom mirrors, sighing at his reflection exhaustingly. He wished he had taken his beeper with him so he could feign a hospital emergency to get away from dinner.

This was not good.

He wasn't supposed to care about Wilson. Not in the way he was thinking, at least. House wanted to scold himself, tell himself that this was _stupid_ and that he was being _ridiculous_. Thinking that this could ever work. Anything that was sane enough to communicate with House he ended up driving away, and every good thing that happened to him he broke.

He had given up on trying to control his feelings, not that he ever had a grip on them in the first place. Like a dog without a leash, his emotions were running over Wilson too wildly for him to handle. Attempting to let his infatuation die out on its own was like waiting for a pot to boil when it held no ingredients.

House slammed his forehead against the mirror, grunting.

His infatuation was going to get worse. It would grow and grow until it was unbearable, and House didn't think he could handle another intolerable pain along with his leg, even if one was emotional and the other was physical.

If he didn't stop himself now he would end up falling in love, and that was something that Greg House didn't do anymore.

Falling in love with someone wasn't realistic. It was low and pitiful and pathetic. But damn it, House thought he might be becoming a victim to it.

He didn't have a lot of time left before he would be falling headfirst into something he couldn't climb his way out of with Wilson. He knew the signs, the stages, the ladders that he would tumble down to reach his way to the pit of depression; also known as the pit of love.

House had already reached the sex dream part of this infatuation.

That wasn't a good thing.

_AN_: How many of you wish that the sex dreams mentioned above would be written in the chapter? :D

I'd like to give a shout out to one my best friends, _ReachIntoTheSky_ here on fanfic, because he's bloody awesome and has reviewed every chapter so far always squealing for more :)

And, a little off topic, but for those of you who I talk to on AIM a lot, I have a new screenname: JuliexCoolie Feel free to message me! :D


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

"I told you that you would move to the hookers soon."

"She's _not_ a hooker. And I'm not even interested in her!"

House tutted disbelievingly, swirling his cane around his fingers just to have something to do with his hands. He scowled at Wilson darkly.

"She asked you out."

"_For coffee_," Wilson recollected, "do you call going out with your mother for coffee a date?"

"If my mother would accentuate her c-cups with a low cut shirt like that, then yes I would." House pointed accusingly down the hall.

"She's a nice person," Wilson said, glaring at House threateningly, "you're the one who pointed out that I hadn't chatted with nurses by the elevator in ages."

"Was I complaining?" House barked, furrowing his eyebrows together.

"House!" the oncologist said firmly, "I'm going to have coffee with her after work whether you approve or not. I don't have a curfew, you're not my mother, and I don't need to listen to this. You don't like me going out with anyone."

"That's because you only date the clingy women who don't let me come near you." House growled, his knuckles white against his cane.

"Could you just for once be happy for me?"

"She only wants to get into your pants!" House said sourly, disapprovingly glowering at Wilson.

"You're crazy." Wilson said, sounding thoroughly deflated from their argument. He turned away with a sigh.

"Only for you!" House told him with a smirk before he watched Wilson disappear down the hallway towards the oncology ward. He limped over to his office, smiling briefly at his team.

"What's going on with Wilson?" Foreman asked enigmatically, raising an eyebrow.

"You know it's not nice to pry," House said, waggling his finger at the man, "you're grounded from the whiteboard for a month."

"I _heard_ you through the glass." Foreman retorted sharply.

"Wilson's going out with someone else," Thirteen announced with a suppressed grin, "House wants Wilson to himself."

"Uh – he's jealous?" Kutner asked uneasily.

"Obviously."

"Of, um, Wilson or the girl he's going out with?" he pressed awkwardly.

"Kutner, stop fantasizing about me and Wilson!" House scolded, staring avidly at the symptoms written on the board. "Dying guy needs to be cured, and unfortunately we can't do that if he's _dead_. So let's diagnose him now!"

"Maybe Parkinson's–"

"Dr. House," Thirteen interrupted loudly, "can I speak to you privately please?"

House arched his eyebrows at her before smirking, hunkering over slightly before loudly whispering for the whole table to hear, "If this is about that time in the janitor's closet yesterday, can we discuss this later?"

"Who came out of the closet?" Kutner asked, perking his head up in shock.

"Thirteen."

"House." Both the diagnostician and Thirteen simultaneously answered Kutner's question, smiling innocently.

"What's going on?" Taub piped up perplexedly.

House straightened seriously, giving the whiteboard one more glance before booming out, "We should check his lair for booty, if you know what I mean."

"But – we already checked his house."

"This time check it for contaminated water. Kutner, take Homey with you. Taub, watch the patient now that we've put him on different meds." House instructed. "Thirteen, shall we gossip and share dirty secrets behind the whiteboard?"

Thirteen rolled her eyes as she pushed her way out of her chair and shuffled after House to his office.

"What is it you need?" the older doctor asked tiredly, expecting nothing but more encouraging lectures about his feelings and the subtle signs that Wilson was sending him.

"I saw the way you were looking at Wilson," she said softly, a smile flickering gently onto her lips, "you're in love with him."

"Dear god, woman!" House groaned, falling into his desk chair, "aren't you happy enough with me admitting that I have feelings for him? I'm _not_ in love with him!"

The unspoken _yet_ hung eerily in the air. House shiftily stared at the wall.

"House," Thirteen said gingerly, "just because this is hard doesn't mean it's not true. Denying your feelings will just make things worse."

"Wilson is dating nurses," House said simply, throwing his hands up into the air, "It's too late! If anything, that should prove that he's not in love with me like I am with him."

Like a loud _gong_ going off, the room silenced abruptly. House couldn't even hear the annoying humming from his radiator. Everything had stopped. He looked clandestinely into Thirteen's considerably widened eyes.

"Shut up." He snapped at her, pursing his lips together sulkily.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to." House blamed stiffly.

"You love him."

"What part of _shut up_ did you not understand?"

Thirteen's smile looked like it was about to break apart her cheeks. She laughed triumphantly, shaking her head in disbelief. "You admitted it! You're in love!"

"That's not a good thing," House shot down instantly, "go away, Thirteen."

"You should tell him."

"_No_."

"Why not?" she pressed persistently.

"No!!" he yelled determinedly, "_get out_."

Thirteen sighed despite the fact that her mouth was still sporting an immovable beam. She grabbed her hospital coat as she left House's office, heading towards the patient's ward.

House rested his chin in his fingers as he laid his elbow on the desktop. There were a million thoughts going through his head, some of them consisting of how Thirteen had inflicted all of her idiosyncrasies on him and that it was affecting his thinking and some of them purely Wilson.

Wilson.

House rubbed at his forehead soothingly, painfully remembering the nurse he had been chatting with earlier as House had spied on him through his blinds.

Dammit, this hurt.

House grabbed for his vicodin, pouring out more than his usual dose onto his palm before swallowing them swiftly and letting his head hit his desk hopelessly.

When out of the blue there was a flicker of a thought crossing his mind.

It was bad. It was so bad.

But then again, so was House.

Everyone liked watching humiliation. Nobody enjoyed humiliation. Somebody always has to create humiliation, and as usual, it would be House.

For House, he would stoke the fire of embarrassment by throwing in toothpicks at irregular intervals, subtle and logically innocuous to the background-deprived bypasser.

He was a horrible friend.

But he was a smart person who knew how to lie, make plans and be discreet about pulling them through. And he knew that he could also be a good boyfriend.

Occasionally.

And to be a good boyfriend, House needed to be a bad friend.

His plans were all insane. They were all incredibly elaborate yet breathtakingly brilliant. House prided himself on his skills in devising evil schemes.

If he would be in one of those cheesy kiddy movies, he'd be the baddie. But he'd be a brilliant baddie and that was all that counted.

The doctor snatched up his phone, dialing the number for the intercom. He grinned manically.

"Would nurse Williams please come to the second floor hallway next to the coffee machines, thank you." it was not a request.

House grabbed his cane, limping over to the said location, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Excuse me?" a female voice chirped, "what is this about?"

"Are you nurse Williams?" House inquired, smirking smugly when she nodded, "On Dr. Wilson's request, I'm sorry to inform you that he won't be able to see you for coffee after work."

"Oh." She mumbled, "Is he busy working?"

"No," House said immediately, "he decided that's he's not really bisexual, but he's just gay." He said bluntly, reveling in the nurse's gaping expression. Her mouth formed a meticulously round 'o'.

"He's… he's gay?"

"And he leaves up the toilet seat!" House boomed jovially, "Find yourself a different doctor."

She deplorably slumped away from the hallway, House smiling in satisfaction the whole time.

When Greg House was in love with somebody, he didn't let anybody else touch them.

--

"Uh… I thought Cuddy told you to do clinic duty today…?" Kutner questioned hesitantly, fiddling with pen.

"What, are you going to tattle tale on Daddy?"

"Of course not."

House scowled at him warningly. "I'm not going to go to clinic duty," he said, "I have other things on my mind. And don't you even dare ask what!" he ordered at Kutner sharply.

"We have yet another new symptom," Foreman mumbled, sorting through the patient's file, "while we were in the lab researching the _uncontaminated_ stuff from his home, Taub told us that he was spiking a fever."

"Could be," House murmured, but his mind was wandering considerably far away, "Wilson's disease." His mind didn't even wrap around the word _disease_.

"_Wilson's disease?_" Foreman repeated incredulously, "House, that's ludicrous! He would need to have heart problems, probably KF rings around his irises and not to mention hypoparathyroidism!"

House was silent. The only thing going through his mind was Wilson. Wilson's skin against his, chest against chest, lips moving against lips with a smooth rhythm, naked in emotion, naked in thoughts, naked in body –

"House? Uh, House…?"

"What the hell is he thinking about?" Wilson could vaguely make out Taub's blurry voice in the hazy background, interrupting this vortex of bliss that was swirling around his brain.

"House!" Thirteen shouted. Finally, he whirled around from the whiteboard.

"What was wrong with Wilson's disease?" he asked, squinting his eyes.

This was not good. Wilson was turning his brain into jelly.

"Enough things," Foreman said with a rough sigh, closing the file in his fingers and standing up from his chair, "all of you, run a CT scan on his brain."

House sank into the chair that Thirteen had vacated, rubbing at his temples tenderly. He let out a gentle sigh, tilting his head off the chair rest.

Greg House didn't fall in love. He didn't ever get emotionally attached to anyone. It was one of his rules, and it was one of the only rules he had that he didn't break. He liked disobeying the regulations, especially when he didn't get caught, but this one was firm in his morals. He didn't fall in love.

But apparently, he did end up breaking every rule, no matter if he wanted to or not.

_CHAPTER 9 TEASER: _Cuddy laughed, "You're going to tell him," she said firmly, "because if you won't, I will."

_AN_: I already have chapter nine and half of chapter ten done. So expect an update soon. Maybe even tomorrow already, depends on the reviews :P

This time I'd like to dedicate my thanks to one of my favorite reviewers, _SaveTheWatchmaker_, simply because she is such a great pal and always has something nice to say :D


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House had been avoiding clinic duty.

And Cuddy was not going to stand for it anymore.

She stomped out of her office, being completely ignorant to the workers at the counter who needed her signature on forms, ignoring the calls of "Dr. Cuddy! Dr. Cuddy, we need you in exam room two for some help with a patient, please!", ignoring the fact that she had almost ran into a man in a wheelchair, heading furiously towards the elevators.

She was not happy.

No one messed with Lisa Cuddy when she was angry.

Sometimes she wondered why she kept House working for her hospital. Of course he was a brilliant doctor who solved cases that no one else could, and sure he had the mind of a wise man, and no one could forget his way of persuading others to do things that they normally wouldn't, which certainly sometimes helped the hospital, but he was a pain in the ass. He ignored clinic hours, he had absolutely no respect for his boss, and he often insulted and assaulted patients.

Cuddy aggressively punched at the elevator buttons, receiving awkward sideway glances from the other passengers of the lift. She sent them a hasty, apologetic glance before rushing out of the elevator doors once again and bursting into House's office. She growled when she saw House's empty chair, moving to enter the adjoined room and glare sternly at the older doctor.

"Dr. Cuddy," Kutner said in surprise, giving a puzzled look to his coworkers. Taub shrugged.

"I need to talk to you." She said severely to House, crossing her arms and giving an expectant look to the attentive doctors staring interestedly at their two bosses.

House smiled at his team, "He'll need an LP. Go on," he motioned for them all to shuffle out, raising his eyebrows at Cuddy. She frowned crossly. "What is this about?"

"You've been completely ignoring clinic duty."

"What else is new?"

Thirteen reluctantly got out of her chair, taking a tentative step forward, "Dr. Cuddy, it's my fault," she said immediately, "I found another case and with the stress of having two patients Dr. House just didn't have time to do clinic duty. I feel obligated to take care of it."

Cuddy looked suspiciously at Thirteen, putting her hands on her hips, "You… gave House another patient? And he accepted?"

"Yes," she replied shortly, flicking her gaze rapidly to House before returning it to Cuddy.

Cuddy looked over her shoulder at House scrutinizingly before turning back to Thirteen, "All right," she agreed with a tired sigh, "then I will need you in the clinic now."

Thirteen nodded, smiling faintly at House as she left the office.

"So we're done talking." House reached for the door handle just as Cuddy swiftly laid her arm over it, standing protectively over the threshold.

"You never take extra cases, and especially not when they're requests from your team."

"Your point?" House attempted to prod her away with his cane, repeatedly dropping it gently on her foot.

"What's going on?" her voice softened slightly.

"Nothing I'm going to tell you about." He said shortly, finally succeeding in pushing his boss away from the door and hobbling out of it to his office.

"House, this is affecting your duties at the hospital. I have a right to know."

"Don't get all mother hen on me," he grimaced at her uncomfortably, settling himself into his chair and grabbing his frequently used toy, his ball.

"If you don't tell me, I'll just ask Wilson. He'll probably know." Cuddy said finally, throwing her arms up into the air feebly before heading to the door.

"No," House said quietly, a strong hint of fear and menace in his voice. Cuddy turned on her heel, raising her eyebrows suspiciously.

"House, what's going on?" she asked wearily, "Has Wilson decided to not forgive you for Amber's death? I thought you two were all right."

House looked stonily at the wall, fingering his ball in his numb fingers, not quite comprehending what he was doing. "We are," he said, "He is. I… I'm not."

He wanted to crawl underneath the desk. Cuddy was the last person he wanted to have this conversation with, besides from maybe Foreman or his father. He pondered a desperate escape, perhaps trying to outrun Cuddy, but he knew that hobbling away would not get him anywhere in his issue.

"House," Cuddy said, "_House_."

"It's not a problem," House said impassively, swiveling around to toss his ball against the wall fiercely. It bounced back into the doctor's hands roughly.

Cuddy took a cantankerous stomp forward, "House, it is affecting your job. It's affecting your patients! You're going to kill that man and maybe more to come because you're letting some personal issues with Wilson get in the way! You need to talk to him _now_."

"I'm not." House said firmly.

"Why not?"

There was a heavy weight pushing harder and harder on House's shoulders as he stared into Cuddy's harsh and expectant eyes. If he told her the truth, would she even believe him? House was a seemingly emotionless machine that was incapable of feelings, and it was cliché enough that he had fallen in love with his best friend.

"House!" Cuddy barked, "what the hell is going on?"

House was going to be honest. Either Cuddy would believe him, and cut him from clinic duty, or she would roll her eyes in defeat before stalking out of his office.

He dropped his ball on his desk, facing her with a sigh, "I'm in love with Wilson."

There was a silence of thirty seconds of dead air. Finally, Cuddy exhaled sharply, shaking her head, "House, seriously."

House raised his eyebrows, attempting to convey the message wordlessly. "Seriously?" he said when Cuddy remained silent, "Okay, I'm _seriously_ in love with Wilson."

"I don't understand," she said, one arm in midair, frozen on it's path to brush back to the strands of hair in her face. "How could you be in love with – oh, good morning, Dr. Wilson!"

Wilson had strode into the office, arms on his hips as he approached House's desk. "Did you cancel my date with the nurse from the third floor?" he asked, a suppressed tone of exasperation hidden on his tongue.

House glanced briefly at Cuddy, watching as she gaped from Wilson to House, as though she was finally believing the doctor's confession.

"You cancelled his date?" she asked incredulously.

"What nurse on the third floor?" he asked Wilson innocently.

"The one I was talking to outside your office two days ago!"

"Oh," House nodded understandingly, "sorry, see, I thought she was from the _fourth_ floor. Bad eggs up there."

Wilson shook his head disbelievingly before thundering from the office with a huffy sigh.

Cuddy frowned, "You do know that by canceling his dates you won't win him over?"

"Are you still here?" House barked at her, snatching up his cane and limping toward the door. "I'll see if I can help Thirteen in the clinic."

"Ah, ah, ah," Cuddy admonished automatically, blocking his exit once again with a disapproving smirk, "you need to tell him."

"No," the diagnostician brushed off, "see, I _want_ to climb Mount Kilimanjaro but I can't," he helplessly raised his cane, "I'm _not_ going to tell Wilson."

"House!" she said acrimoniously, "you embarrass other people every single day and you act like nothing humiliates you and that you're completely fearless because you're all-knowing, but the truth is that you're afraid to face your fears–"

"If this is a way to sweet talk me into confessing to Wilson it's totally not working," House said nastily, roughly pushing her away from the doorway. She staggered away, only to cover to the knob with her hand firmly.

"I'm not afraid of anything. But I don't know any intelligent person who would sell something for not any money, so I can do nothing but guess that you're not intelligent." House told her.

"I'm not getting your metaphor." Cuddy sighed.

House growled impatiently, "Why should I tell Wilson when I'm not going to get anything out of it?"

"You don't know that!"

"Of course I do!" he yelled, wanting to throw his cane against the wall or stomp his foot. "Good things only happen to people who deserve them! I'm lucky enough that Wilson even looks at me after Amber's death, I don't want to risk that when I know that I'm not going to get anything out of it!"

Cuddy's grip on the door loosened considerably. She looked much more sympathetic now, as though ready to pet House's shoulder consolingly and mother-hen him. The sudden change in mood made House suspicious if the woman was having her time of the month again.

"Don't give me the kicked puppy look," he said sharply, "don't feel sorry for me. And don't go motherly on me. I can take care of myself, and believe me, it's better that Wilson doesn't know. Enough people do already."

"Who? Me?" Cuddy asked indignantly, crossing her arms.

"You're an idiot," House accused sourly, taking his seat again, "the five steps for acceptance were on the board for days and Thirteen is trying to cover up for my clinic duty absence."

Cuddy's eyes widened to the size of tree trunks. "Thirteen _knows_?!"

"It was her idea in the first place," he grumbled, hoisting his leg up onto his desk with the support of his fingers, "are we done with this conversation yet? Just let me off clinic duty and leave."

The dark-haired woman sighed, "I'll let you off clinic duty," she said quietly.

"Good. Now leave." House waved her away irritably.

"If you tell Wilson."

The older doctor met Cuddy's gaze reluctantly, sighing. "Poorly played," said House, "either do clinic duty or tell Wilson? Pretty hollow bribe."

"Fine," Cuddy said, leaning her hands on his desk, "you get triple the hours of clinic duty you normally would or you tell Wilson."

"Blackmail." House spat, not liking the taste of the word on his tongue. At least not when other people inflicted it upon him.

"Uh huh." She smiled smugly.

"Was this your plan? Move to the blackmail if I don't accept the bribe?"

"Maybe," Cuddy laughed, "you're going to tell him," she said firmly, "because if you won't, I will."

House groaned, "I don't need two Thirteens telling me how I feel and that I need to express my emotions around here. Stop interfering!"

"It's affecting your job at the hospital."

"You don't even care about that! I have a smart team, and Foreman likes playing teacher and Boss Foreman. I think it's overcompensating, but–"

"House!" Cuddy barked over his rambles, "you have three days."

"Or what?"

"Or I tell Wilson. Or I might even have Thirteen do it."

"Hey!" House snapped, sternly pointing a finger at his boss, "if you do that, I don't mind canceling _your_ dates too."

"Oh, that'll teach me." Cuddy shivered in feigned fear before stalking from House's office, the air of satisfaction and victory hanging amiss her. House scowled as though he had swallowed a lemon.

Damn _women_.

_CHAPTER 10 TEASER: _"I love you." House interrupted quietly.

_AN_: For those of you who haven't figured out yet that the next chapter is confession chapter, here's the big spoiler!! XD Again, I might update tomorrow if all of you review. So for those of who have only added this as a favorite or an alert, speak up for the updates!! :D I already finished Chapter 10, and I can share that it's a big chapter!!

Love to you all!


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House's eyes bored into his lunch like it held all of the answers of the world. Even the answers to the trick questions and those unanswerable contemplations.

Of course it didn't.

He was not enthused about telling informing Wilson about his constantly increasing love for him, but better House than Cuddy. There was nothing more awkward than the thought of Wilson strolling into House's office with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, questioning the entire affair after talking to Cuddy as lightly as though the conversation was simply where they would be having dinner tomorrow night.

House growled exasperatedly, flinging the plastic fork he had been playing with across his office. It soared before landing unceremoniously on the wall. House gritted his teeth together and bit his lip.

It wasn't like he was never ever planning to confess to Wilson. But he wanted to do it when he was ready for it. Not that House knew when that day would come, but it wasn't anytime soon. He wanted to recite his words. He wanted to be meticulous about that.

Normally, he wouldn't. Normally, House would say what came to his mind at the time, but he knew that he naturally would say something offensive to ruin his confession and destroy his chances for a serious, pleasant conversation. This was House's chance to show Wilson that he was human, and he didn't want to mess it up with an inappropriate comment or even worse, an impulsive insult in Wilson's direction. He had only three days before his clinic duty hours would outrank the amount of paperwork he had neglected over the years.

That gave him only seventy-two hours to prepare.

--

House had precisely forty-two hours, eighteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds left until Cuddy would be on his ass again.

Well, he didn't know about the seconds. He made that part up. But it made him seem like he was really, _really_ focused on this whole thing.

House's plan was to go through the rest of the workday and not even let his mind flit over Wilson, so then he could go home and spend the evening contemplating his confession while spending some humbling hours playing the piano.

His plan failed.

_Miserably_.

During his differential diagnosis discussion, the weight of Cuddy's ultimatum and the pressure of actually admitting his feelings to Wilson entirely took over his mind during the debate with his team. Finally he let Foreman take over the whiteboard as he slumped into his office and repeatedly swallowed his vicodin almost every ten minutes.

When he had gotten home, he got distracted by the TV.

For the rest of the evening.

Despite the fact that he was watching reality shows he abhorred and even the damn cooking channel just to avoid the task he was supposed to be dwelling on, it gave him a semi-solid excuse as to why he didn't work on creating his declaration.

Now it was the next morning, House sipping distantly at his coffee cup and letting his eyes wander at the random hospital staff members that walked by his office.

He wanted to say how he felt. But to be frank, he didn't even know what that was for sure himself. And even if he did, House wanted everything but to sound like a love struck fool whose mind had been taken over by the pains of indescribable feelings that was the closest thing he'd ever felt to magic.

Even if it was true.

Thirteen and Cuddy had rubbed off on him. They'd made him a fruity, romantic doctor who might as well be on those horrendously dramatic soap operas simply because it was so cheesy. They'd practically handed him estrogen on a fork and spoon-fed him until he was in love with Wilson.

House growled.

"Hey," Thirteen's voice wafted over to House's wishy-washy mind, "I heard yesterday that Cuddy isn't making you do clinic duty."

"No. But you are."

She rolled her eyes, "Cuddy _also_ told me that you have three days to tell Wilson that you love him or she's giving you triple clinic duty."

"You heard right." House said bitterly.

"So?" Thirteen sighed aggravatingly when House remained persistently silent, "What are you going to tell him?"

"You do know that if I have something worked out, I wouldn't tell you?" House told her coldly, attempting to ward her off with an icy glower.

Thirteen smiled, "House," she began, "you're an ass. You treat people like year-old banana. You're a complicated and break-the-rules-or-I-break-your-job kind of boss. But I know that when you're around Wilson you aren't those things," she grinned encouragingly at him, "just say whatever you mean when you tell him."

"Are you spying on Wilson and me?" House asked after a very long, pregnant pause.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because why else would you know that I'm not a complicated ass who treats Wilson like a year-old banana?" House inquired logically.

Thirteen laughed softly, "You only smile when you're around him," she said quietly, "it's almost inspirational."

The diagnostician stared into Thirteen's dancing, victorious eyes for a long time before he finally broke his gaze and muttered, "Thanks for the chat."

--

On the third day, House was very unmotivated about his still yet-to-be-created speech to Wilson.

The job of trying to recruit words to form sentences meaningful enough to really convey the significance of his feelings towards Wilson was practically fruitless. His only other option was letting his mouth do the talking unprepared and unpracticed, which was an opportunity that House was reluctant to pursue.

He had considered writing Wilson a short and practically negligible note that he could leave hidden in a drawer on Wilson's desk that he would _eventually_ find. After that he began running out of the options.

House could always do the triple hours of clinic duty, but Cuddy wouldn't let down from a challenge like this if there was a chance to let House be happy and not be so damn grumpy all the time. She would probably extend her blackmail to include more clinic duty hours or throw in a tempting bribe. Either way, House would have to cave eventually.

So he might as well do it now and save himself the clinic duty and suffering.

With that conclusion, House began fretting.

He didn't let his worries show on his exterior. House would never give Thirteen another chance to harp on him about if he was all right and how he was feeling and all of that shit that House didn't need right now.

It hit him during a very unspectacular moment that he was going to tell Wilson in less than ten hours. Less than _five_ hours.

His heart began racing and his brow began sweating. There was a sort of high House could induce himself on by thinking about Wilson, but this was a high that was all nerves. And as far as House was concerned, his body _held no nerves_. He was always collected. Not always calm and cool, but he was always fearless.

So it was hard to actually not be able to suppress fear for once. He hadn't shown his worry or passed it on to others since he was in grade school. And even then, he was young and dumb. Now he knowledgeable and old, so being afraid of something shouldn't be a problem for him anymore.

He could outgrow being afraid of monsters under the bed, or frighteningly colossal shadows that loomed over him. He could outgrow having to sleep with a night-light because the dark scared him enough to have an accident in his pajamas.

He couldn't outgrow being afraid of love.

House banged his cane against the floor before he took a deep, rattling breath.

It did nothing to slow his heartbeat.

--

By seven o'clock, the colorfully dark sky slipping further and further away from sight, House was ready to fall out of his body and crawl into nothingness. He wanted to chicken out from this.

He tried to remember all of the unappealing rashes he would have the examine, all of the stinky feet, all of the crotches that may or may not hold STDs, all of the _morons_ that had nothing wrong with them at all with the exception of being paranoid about being sick, that he would have to deal with in clinic duty.

He tried to remember all of the consoling words that people at the hospital had said to House. Thirteen trying to edge him into the corner that made him admit his feelings, Cuddy trying to blackmail him into telling Wilson about his infatuation, Wilson having a strangely peaceful conversation with House that made him lose the grip he had on his rope of sanity just a bit more each time.

_You only smile when you're around him._

_You've softened, House. Maybe you think that you're still the same, but changed._

_I'd like to know that you're not a man who's so screwed up he can't even love anyone anymore._

_Don't you ever get miserable being miserable?_

_You embarrass other people every single day and you act like nothing humiliates you and that you're completely fearless because you're all-knowing, but the truth is that you're afraid to face your fears._

House rubbed at his temples before grabbing his vicodin bottle and swallowing a few pills hastily. In a desperate attempt to calm himself down, he walked out to his office balcony, inhaling the scent of the clean air as though it was oxygen his lungs weren't getting.

The sky had a tinge of orange, blue, and pink at the bottom of the horizon. It faded into the black that went higher up until it met a prominent crescent moon hanging in the velvety blanket of nothingness, looming eerily over House's face.

It was almost… romantic.

"Hey," a voice mumbled, "I thought you'd have gone home by now."

House turned, pressing his lips together firmly when he saw Wilson leaning on his side of the balcony casually.

"Hey," he murmured back quietly, an insistent tingling dashing up and down his spine.

House had to do this now.

It was now, or he would never be able to.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, approaching the edge of the balcony. He grinned faintly at Wilson, "I've wanted to talk to you for… for about three days now."

"Oh," Wilson's eyebrows arched up in interest, "what is it?"

Thirteen had told him to say whatever he felt at the moment and whatever he meant. Right now he didn't remember what he meant and he had too many feelings swarming around his mind to focus on one.

House bit his upper lip, frowning at the balcony ledge as he struggled to find the right words.

"You know how if you walk into a store, and a salesman comes up to you and tries to persuade you to buy this really… really great couch," the doctor smiled fondly to himself, "except that you didn't think it was great before, mostly because you've sat on the cushions for so long you've gotten used to them. And you've never tried to flip around the cushions and see what that side feels like. So this seemingly idiotic salesman is actually making sense – you realize that you love this couch."

"I… I guess this is one of these hidden meaning metaphors?"

"Just shut up and let me finish," House snapped, "so you love this couch. And… and you want to buy it. But you don't know if the couch will fit into your home. And you don't know if the couch… if the couch wants to have you sit on it."

His words were jumbling. This was probably the first injudicious metaphor he'd ever told.

"I don't know what you're getting at, House. Is there actually a salesman and a couch?"

"No," House scowled at Wilson, "don't be an idiot."

Wilson scratched the back of his head, "I'll try."

The older doctor sighed, "I'm sorry," he muttered. If he was going to do this, he would have to do it without the sarcastic comments occasionally squeezing themselves in.

"House," Wilson sighed frustratingly, "whatever this is about, why can't you just say–"

"I love you." House interrupted quietly.

There was an abrupt silence. The chirping of the crickets were entirely ignored by both doctors standing on the balconies.

Wilson froze. He stared at a spot on the balcony ledge fixedly, avoiding House's expectant and slightly terrified gaze. His mouth was agape, his hands crushing a death grip onto the balcony. He took a small, unnoticeable shuffle back.

"Wilson, look at me." House ordered silently, the apprehensive edge on his voice shivering on his trembling lip.

The oncologist's eyes flashed over House's before he let out a suppressed puff of air and leant further on the balcony. He was still dead silent as he took a step left, his body pointing away from House's as though it was gravitating there as he stared pointedly at the sky.

House tutted incredulously when there was still no response. There was a hint of timid fear bordering on his words. He was practically ready to implode on the spot, "So I guess you're disgusted by me?" he questioned.

"No." Wilson mumbled, an air of breathlessness hanging on his tongue, "you just… you just surprised me."

Still, House didn't hear those four shaking words escape from Wilson's lips. _I love you too_. He would even settle for an _I like you too_. But none came even after seconds passed.

"Then… then why aren't you saying it back yet?" House asked. He didn't even try to keep the panic from his voice, the despondence and pinch of hopefulness he was clinging onto.

"Oh," Wilson murmured, still staring at the balcony ridge and curling his fingers around it until his knuckles were ghostly white. "I'm sorry, House."

And that was when House's world fell from his feet.

"W-What?" he dared to ask. His vision was blurring over with tears that were prepared to fall from his eyes. House hastily tried to blink them away.

Everything was turning deathly gray in front of his eyes.

He wanted to say that it was all a joke. He wanted to make some sort of analytical examination of Wilson now, say that his response was just all a test to see how he reacted to someone falling in love with him. He wanted to laugh it off and say that Kutner owed him twenty dollars now because this all was just a ridiculous bet. That there weren't House's feelings involved. Because Greg House doesn't fall in love. He doesn't get emotionally attached. He doesn't _care_ and he doesn't mind the cold sting of rejection because he's not a stranger to unrequited love. He wanted to voice that.

But he didn't.

It was almost as if his heart was ripped from his chest and thrown into a blender. House couldn't even feel the beating of his heart anymore, mostly because the dreaded words of _I'm sorry, House_ were echoing throughout his brain and clouding over any other noise. It felt as though with every minute that slowly went by thirty degrees shaved themselves from the air and the warmth plummeted to iciness.

House wasn't only getting increasingly miserable as the seconds ticked by, but he was getting progressively livid. All those people – Cuddy and Thirteen – they had convinced him until the oceans ran dry that Wilson felt the same way. And they were wrong. They pressured him into getting his heart broken. Thirteen had hectored him into admitting his feelings and then Cuddy just to had blackmail him with clinic duty to make him confess to Wilson. And now he couldn't go back to the way things were because he had pulled the plug. The water was draining. He couldn't fish it back through the pipes.

A single tear dropped from House's blue eyes. Wilson finally turned away from the sky, looking concernedly in the older doctor's direction.

"House–"

"Don't say anything," House mumbled, "you've said enough."

"I'm so sorry." He gently touched his friend's arm, only to have House jerk it away abruptly.

"Where the hell is my vicodin?" He roared, whirling away from Wilson and digging furiously in his pockets. He gulped down the remnants of his bottle, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Don't take so many," Wilson said gingerly, "you'll hurt yourself."

"You've already done a fine job of that." House spat, pressing his lips together and shutting his eyes, trying to block out the world.

"I didn't mean to."

"Yeah, well, you did," House accused bitterly, "you're not the only miserable one around here."

There was a pause where House attempted to wipe away the tears running away from his burning eyes.

"I… how long?"

"I don't want to talk about this," he said, "it's my fault for thinking that you felt the same way."

Wilson sighed quietly, "House, I just don't want to get involved with someone with your," he fought for the right words, "in your condition."

"In my condition?" House repeated coldly, "what, because I'm a bastard?"

"House, you're damaged."

"Well, I'm almost undamaged." He turned away to head for the door, brushing away the leftover tears with his thumb.

"I'm so sorry." Wilson said again, his brown eyes painfully warm, console and comfort trying to fly out of them. But all of those things that seemed to pour out of Wilson flew straight by House into the dead of night.

House turned briefly to catch Wilson's gaze, "So how does it feel, knowing that you've broken my heart?"

"House–"

The older man yanked open the door. "You did a hell of a good job of doing it." he stormed through the door to his office as fast as a man with a cane could.

All of his hopes, all of his dreams and fantasies, they were impossible. They had been flushed down the drain the moment Wilson had apologized to House.

He didn't need to explain that apology.

House threw his cane away from his body, groaning as he let himself crash on the floor in a messy heap. His fingers curled protectively around his vicodin bottle as he rested his head against his nearby desk.

The whole world had gone cold.

_CHAPTER 11 TEASER_: "You're not in my head, Wilson," House murmured, "so don't tell me that I'm just trying to make you miserable!"

_AN_: -runs from all of the angry fangirls and hides- YES, I know you all hate me now. But this story will end happily, I already know that. Don't lose faith in this! XD

Is it bad that writing this chapter made me cry??

And for all of you wonderful reviewers, I cannot tell you how much all of your reviews made my day!! It was so lovely to wake up to a bunch of pleads and begs and such XD I love you all to death!

I'd also like to point out that I DO know that Stacy and House were never married. My mind was clearly somewhere else when I wrote the chapters containing that information, or perhaps since Wilson has three marriages I was simply melding the two men together! Get your minds OUT of the gutter, people! XD


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

There was a pain that was more insistent that his thigh's stinging boiling in House's mind, and it was rejection. It was the sense of dread that he would have to go back into work again tomorrow and face Wilson.

This wasn't the Greg House he had worked so hard in creating over the years. The cold, hard exterior that didn't care. His mission had been to prove to Wilson that he wasn't an emotionless machine with no fear and pain, and now he wanted to reverse that. House wanted to prove to Wilson that he hadn't been hurt or stabbed in the heart by Wilson's rejection. But not only did he want to persuade him of that, House wanted it to be true.

This was what happened when he let himself love.

He got hurt. And each time he got a wound that was bigger than the last one.

It wasn't worth it.

The risk was colossal, and House had believed the lies he had been fed by Cuddy and Thirteen that Wilson had returned his feelings because he wanted to believe them, but now they just left him cold and bitter, never wanting to trust anybody ever again.

House looked stonily at the vicodin bottle that was nestled in his palm. He swallowed more than he normally would, letting his head rest on his couch pillows with a moan.

There was a knock on the door.

House's mind wrapped around who it was in two second's time. He wanted to throw something at the door, yell for Wilson to go away, or even _cry_ just so he wouldn't have to let the doctor in.

"What do you want?" he ended up muttering in a raspy voice.

"House, let me in."

What worried House the most was that Wilson didn't sound apologetic. This wasn't going to be a sympathetic, comforting visit where Wilson would mumble some nothings like _It's not you, it's me_, or _It was just too soon after Amber_. House didn't want to hear any of that.

"Can we please, _please_ just talk tomorrow morning?"

There was a pause where House could sense Wilson weighing options in the hall.

"No." he finally grumbled.

House hoped that Wilson wouldn't abuse the fact that he had keys now when he really, _really_ didn't want to see him. He sighed, remaining silent. He was going to lose this argument whether he wanted to or not, considering that Wilson had the power to unlock the door at his own will.

Finally, when the oncologist heard no reply, he unlocked the door with the spare key and took a few tentative steps in. He winced slightly when he saw House's condition, forlorn and dejected, on the couch.

Wilson held up the keys meekly. "I don't think I should have these anymore."

House stared at the wall attentively, looking anywhere but Wilson.. "Put them on the table." he mumbled silently.

Wilson took a few more steps forward before House saw an expression flit on his face that he hadn't expected.

It was rage.

Why the _hell_ was Wilson was mad at him?

"House," the younger doctor gritted out, "you have no right to be mad at me."

This was the one visit that House had not been prepared for mentally. Or emotionally. Or physically. He wanted more vicodin.

He would have preferred the ludicrous phrases that were supposed to make him feel better over the indignant and acrimonious fury.

"Get out." House ordered quietly, "yell at me tomorrow."

"No," Wilson said firmly, "House, you need to stop be miserable, and you need stop pulling people into your vortex of misery."

"_Go away_, Wilson."

"House!" he yelled, staring furiously into the older man's eyes, "_listen to me!_ This is about your fixation of making everyone else feel exactly the way you do and wanting what you can't have!"

House stared quietly up into Wilson's brown eyes.

"This infatuation you think you have on me is all in your head! You just want people to feel sorry for you." he accused darkly.

House spoke up, shaking his head and hoisting his leg from the couch. He grabbed his cane and stood up so he was the same height as the other doctor.

"You're not in my head, Wilson," he murmured, "so don't tell me that I'm just trying to make you miserable!"

House was not a hedonistic man, usually he kept away from pleasure because it always seemed to end in the opposite, and loving Wilson was practically at first a pleasure. Now it was pain. This was exactly why he didn't seek bliss and delight. Eventually, all those things ran out.

"You're trying to be the hurt hero," Wilson accused heatedly, "make people feel sorry for you. And then I'm the bastard."

House remembered all of those histrionic scenes he watched on his soap operas when two characters were cross with each other. They would each take a shuffle forward with every furious accusation until they were nose-to-nose and could feel each other's breath on their chins, and that would evolve into a cantankerous, frantic kiss. But Wilson and House were separated by practically a flagpole. With every retort that House yelled, the other doctor seemed to take a step back instead of forward. Any kissing that would be exchanged here would be blown flamboyantly.

And House just wasn't going to do that, no matter how gay or effeminate he was.

"You already are a bastard, you don't need any help from me to accomplish that," House spat acidly, "I figured that out when you smashed my feelings into pulp on the balcony and said it was because I was _damaged_!"

"You're _rude_, you're _inconsiderate_, you're _insensitive _and bitter! And if I would be with you, you wouldn't change! Except that I would have to be around you every hour of every day and it would be my responsibility to make you the opposite of what you are because I should be fixing you!"

"I never asked you to fix me! I don't need fixing!" House shouted, throwing his arms up into the air, "I'm almost undamaged!"

"You're still damaged!"

The balcony scene was replaying itself over and over like a never ending echo in House's brain. The painfully slow _I'__m sorry, House_ and the accusations of being too damaged for Wilson.

And then, out of nowhere, House realized something.

"You know, if you would have told me on the balcony that you weren't gay as a reason not to be with me, we wouldn't be having this fight," the diagnostician muttered, taking a few shuffles forward, Wilson's face radiating fury off of him in waves, "so either you wanted to fight with me, or you're not straight."

Wilson remained deathly stiff, his lips becoming a thin white line and the veins on his temple throbbing. House smirked.

"And from the way that your jaw is twitching like that," House said, and took one more slow step forward until he was only a foot away from the oncologist, "I'd say that you're gay."

He gave a forced laugh, shaking his head at the floor, "Oh," he said, "Amber's hasn't even been dead for that long," House drawled, "what would she do if she was still alive and had a gay doctor for a lover?"

House wouldn't say that he wasn't expecting it. There was one swift, sturdy swing sent towards his face and he knew that he didn't have enough time to duck. It hit him squarely in the jaw, knuckles knocking against House's bones. There was a sickening crunch that filled the air as House stood hunched over the floor, lightly fingering his bruise and breathlessly panting from the windswept punch. Blood dripped morbidly from House's mouth.

"I'm – I'm sorry." Wilson muttered.

"No, you're not."

"You deserved it," Wilson barked, "this whole delusion you have that you're in love with me is just vicodin hallucinations." He stepped over the hunkered over House, heading swiftly for the door.

House unsteadily straightened up, regaining his posture, "You're only saying that because you don't want to believe that the only thing that you had working for you besides your job just got shitted up."

Wilson wavered by the door, drawing in a deep breath as he reached for the handle with trembling fingers, leaving the room without a glance back at House.

The older doctor withdrew his blood coated fingers, briefly glimpsing at them apathetically. The injuries didn't matter. The fact that remained was that House was worried that this one fight and those nocuous but seemingly harmless fifteen minutes spent on the balcony where House had babbled his feelings in a stupid hope that Wilson would return his love would break up their friendship for good.

And unlike Wilson, it was the _only_ thing that he had working for him.

The friendship that House had just messed up.

He messed up anything good he ever had.

--

"What the hell happened to your chin?"

House grumbled at Thirteen, sitting expectantly in her boss's chair the next morning. It had taken House more than just a nudge to drag himself out of bed and into work that morning, and Thirteen's concerned face was not the first thing he wanted to see.

"Get out of my chair," he waved her impatiently from his seat, grumbling as he deposited himself in it instead, "my chin is fine."

She stood patiently by House's desk, smiling in anticipation.

House glanced at her with pursed lips and disapproving furrowed brows. "What is it you want?" he said gruffly.

"So," she drew out, "_so_."

"So." House repeated dryly, rifling distractedly through the patient files on his desk.

"What happened with Wilson?"

The older doctor took a deep sigh, closing his eyes. He stared fixedly at his fingers clamped around a file, trembling slightly. He sighed again before leaning back in his chair languidly, "My chin is courtesy to him."

Thirteen gaped before frowning crossly, putting her hands on her hips, "You said something stupid, didn't you? Some sort of sarcastic insult that made him take a swing at you!"

House remained impassive, "The only stupid thing I told him," he growled, looking menacingly at the female, "was that I love him."

Thirteen froze. Her lips parted into a slow, growing gawk at her boss. Finally she sighed, shaking her head, "I'm sorry," she mumbled, "I feel awful."

"You should." House barked, grabbing his cane and limping into toward the discussion table.

"House–"

"Do your job," he snapped at her, nodding in acknowledgement to the rest of his team curtly, "So Foreman cured our last patient. Here's the much-too-expected new one, twenty-two year old female suffering from respiratory failure. Ideas!"

"Lung disease?"

"Acidosis?" Taub suggested.

"It could be hypoxemic."

"Good," House muttered, "run the tests." He cocked his head towards the door shortly before shuffling back into his office. He didn't want to deal with creating a differential diagnosis with long, drawn-out talks when he was not in the mood to helpfully contribute.

"_House_."

He turned, scowling.

"Go away." He muttered bitterly to Thirteen.

"This is my fault," she murmured, taking a step closer, "I shouldn't have pressured you."

"I think this is your fault too. Wilson should've punched _you_."

Thirteen sighed, "Why did he even punch you? He's the one who hurt _you_."

House ground his teeth together aggravatingly, grimacing at the memory, "He said that I was turning him into a bastard and that this entire infatuation was just a way to make me look like the hero. My feelings are all in my head. And that I need to stop pulling people into my misery."

He slumped into his chair. Before his world had been gray, now it was just _black_. Now it was hopeless.

During that argument in his apartment, he could have easily stayed calm and simply tried to take the understanding point of view. But he had to fight about it, and now Wilson's friendship to him was hanging on a thin, weathered rope that was straining itself.

Thirteen touched his shoulder gently. "Give him time to miss you." she said with a soft smile, and half-heartedly extended her arms for a helpful embrace. House, under normal circumstances, would have told her to get out of his office, but right now he could use the warm feeling of someone not pushing him away. He hesitantly hugged her back, closing his eyes.

This seemed just like another one of his horrid, extremely vivid nightmares.

And he wanted to wake up more than anything.

_AN_: I heard a rumor that Robert Sean Leonard wanted to leave House, and that Amber's death was a way for him to exit the show, but I think that was just a rumor because two days ago I say pictures of Hugh Laurie and Robert Sean Leonard on set for episode 5 of season 5, _Birthmarks_, and House and Wilson were in a car together!! Looking like they were getting along. if you saw those pictures as well, did they make you as happy as they made me?? :D

So I was rewatching the Star Wars episodes today with my cousin and during watching the first one, I realized how much slashy potential there was between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. My cousin said that I was crazy and was just used to shipping people together, but how many other people here agree with me?? XD


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

There was just something about eating that reminded House of Wilson.

Perhaps it was that House would always steal Wilson's lunch. Or dinner. Or drink. Or snack. Or that they shared practically every meal together.

And there was House, sitting at his desk quietly, his eyes boring into the packaged sandwich he had gotten himself from the hospital cafeteria. The taste seemed incredibly dull and practically died on his tongue when he didn't have a certain someone else to enjoy it with.

This was _ridiculous_.

House growled at his lunch, throwing it furiously into his paper casing and haphazardly rewrapping it. Just because of one foolish confession and a fight that they would normally get over in forty-eight minutes Wilson and House weren't speaking? By now the oncologist would have shuffled into House's office, trying to compromise or in some cases, forgetting the incident and brushing it aside and carrying on as usual.

The doctor had had a sneaking a suspicion for the past few days that Wilson was purely afraid to be around House anymore, as though frightened that he would capriciously hit on him or simply ravish him on the carpet. Just like he was at House's apartment, always shuffling further away, like he was worried that House would do something impulsive and thoughtless such as kiss Wilson.

Well.

Just because House was love struck didn't mean he dumbstruck. He knew a rejection when he saw one and he knew not to push something like that. The last he time he attempted to do so, he got a sock in the jaw.

Lightly fingering the dark bruise, House's grip on his cane tightened considerably. In the back of his mind, he didn't want to admit that Wilson had a slightly homophobic reaction to House's declaration of love. Despite the fact that House had practically squeezed out of Wilson that he was gay didn't mean that it was true. The diagnostician was doubting it now himself as well.

His lunch in his fingers and his cane in the other hand, House hobbled from his office down the oncology ward. He found the familiar door with a peeling silver name adorned on its front, pushing it open.

"House."

It was uttered almost as a surprise, as though Wilson was startled that House would be the one to apologize for the situation.

"Hello Wilson." House said curtly, closing the door behind himself and settling himself into the chair facing his friend's desk.

"W-What are you doing here?"

House smiled wryly, "For the most part, I'm trying to be mature here," Wilson cocked a brow interestedly, "and settle this in a way where we can still be friends." He peered almost hesitantly up at Wilson, slightly worried that the other man would be scowling or shaking his head in refusal. But instead he was staring, baffled, at House.

"I never thought you'd be the bigger man here." He admitted.

"You'll be taking that back in a moment," House began, arranging himself in his chair and sighing deeply, "I think you're wonderful, and I don't have a problem admitting that you're easy to love. Too easy, almost," Wilson smiled faintly at his desk, "but you were being a real bastard in my apartment."

The oncologist looked slowly up into House's inquisitive eyes, sighing deeply, "I can't help but believe that there's something weird about this sudden change of feeling, House. You don't – you don't just fall in love with your male best friend overnight."

"What, you think I'm lying?" House asked incredulously.

Wilson shrugged, "Everybody lies." He said.

There were plenty of thoughts running through House's brain that were all flying around the idea of crossing the line so far that he wouldn't even be able to see the line anymore. Just to prove that he was not an emotionless son of a bitch that randomly confessed love for their coworkers just to get assumed as the hero. Some of them were bordering on evading personal space, such as grabbing Wilson's tie and yanking him forward into a kiss.

There was a long, quiet silence of dead air while House pondered his options.

"All righhht," House drawled, fingering his cane articulately, "then I can just as easily make the same assumption about you. You were so upset about Amber dying that you actually _made_ me fall in love with you. You used flirting and maybe even drugs that made me believe things that weren't true! So you _forced_ me to fall in love with you under this wicked spell, and _now_ who's the bastard?" House rambled down, his eyebrows narrowed suspiciously. He leant back in his chair, satisfied, when he had finished.

The brown-haired man shook his head disbelievingly, "You're disgusting," he muttered, "go to hell, House. Stop wasting my time."

It was one thing to be rejected and ridiculed. But it was another to be distrusted and not believed in. In his world of medicine, House could prove everything with blood or tests or spots on the skin, but everything that wasn't printed in a health textbook had no evidence. Personal emotions that weren't symptoms of some deathly disease were too vague to prove. Very vague.

House jerked Wilson across his desk by his shirt, his fingers grasping a death grip out of the buttons and fabric.

"What the hell?!" Wilson yelled, outraged. He shoved the other doctor off him.

"You are _not_ in my head, Wilson," the diagnostician said gruffly, his voice dangerously quiet, "I don't know what I see in you, but whatever it is I can't stopping seeing."

Wilson stared into House's cantankerously firing eyes silently before he smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt and sat back down.

"Get out of my office," he ordered.

"No." House said firmly, and took his seat once again. "I'm trying to tell you that I'm in love with you and you're trying to deny me from it."

"Get _out_, House!"

"_No!_" he retorted determinedly, "this isn't calumny just for my own benefit!"

"I think it is," Wilson muttered, rifling through his papers distractedly, not making eye contact with the older doctor, "and it was very, very efficacious. Probably everybody in this hospital thinks that I'm an insensitive jerk."

"They're not far off, then."

Wilson shot House a warning glare, violently throwing a file into the trashcan by his desk. "For the last time, get out of my office _now_." He commanded, pointing fixedly at the door.

House sighed in defeat, giving one last meek glance to his fuming friend before limping from the office.

His goal had been to fix his friendship and to steal Wilson's lunch.

But he hadn't done any of that.

House sighed at his shoes, tapping his cane against the dull floor gingerly. He wish he knew how to give up his infatuation, how to fire his feelings and quit his emotions but Wilson had entranced him into this craving addiction. Like a smoker without nicotine, House felt as though he had been lured onto a fishhook by his friend and left there to die.

--

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Wilson looked curiously up from his desk, raising his eyebrows at his boss when he saw her storm lividly into the office.

"Uh – Dr. Cuddy, I have a patient–" he motioned towards a stiff man in the chair across from his desk, patiently waiting for Cuddy to leave again.

"He can wait," she said curtly, turning to the patient and smiling apologetically, "I'm sorry, sir, but can you wait in the lobby?"

The man awkwardly shuffled from the room. The moment the door was gently closed again, Cuddy's expression exploded like a bomb reaching its time.

"I was telling him that he only had two weeks left to–" Wilson began aggravatingly.

"I don't care!" Cuddy threw her arms up into the air and put her hands firmly on Wilson's desk, "What the hell were you thinking when you did that to House?"

The oncologist gaped, stunned, before he furiously dropped his pen and crossed his arms. "House told you?"

"Thirteen did," she replied, "I don't care if you say that House is just doing this for a better reputation because he's never given a damn about that!"

"Cuddy–"

She paced around the room in a deformed circle, occasionally stopping to give Wilson disapproving looks, "For _once_ he finally feels some actual emotions, _human _emotions, and you crush them!"

"What do you want me to do, play along with his after school production and pretend to love him back?"

Cuddy gave a rattled sigh, "It's _not_ an after school production, he actually _loves you_, Wilson, and now he's acting worse than when he did after Stacy–"

"You're actually siding with him on this! Why am I supposed to be pulled into his twisted world?" he said crossly.

"It's one thing to reject him, but to accuse him of lying and _blame_ this all on him and start fights in _my_ hospital is not acceptable!"

"I'm sorry," Wilson said tiredly, rubbing at his temples, "I just don't want to deal with House anymore, all right?"

"No, not all right!" Cuddy said firmly, "I was the one who told him to tell you about his feelings in the first place!"

The oncologist slowly raised his head from his arms, staring incredulously at the woman, "This is all _your_ fault?"

"I didn't force him to fall in love with you," she expounded impatiently, "that was Thirteen, I just blackmailed him with clinic duty because I thought you felt the same way."

"_What?_" Wilson inquired disbelievingly, "Cuddy, he's an insensitive, rude ass who–"

"I know what he is." Cuddy interrupted shortly, "But I still feel responsible. You need to find a way to make it work and _apologize_ to him. Or – or just consider seeing what it would be like if you just accepted his offer." She added the last part tentatively, rubbing at the back of her neck.

"What offer?"

"The… the relationship," she said, "please?"

"No!" Wilson said firmly. Cuddy sighed, reaching for the office door.

"I'll get your patient," she mumbled, "just… just think about it, all right?"

"Cuddy," Wilson called out, "there is no way that House and me is going to happen."

The brown-haired woman pursed her lips together, giving Wilson a faint smile, "Then apologize to him," she ordered, "and if you don't, keep in mind that I don't care if I have to blackmail you too."

_CHAPTER 13 TEASER_: House had been right. It had taken the pain away. But it didn't take long until he collapsed, motionless, on the floor.


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

Wilson wasn't doing this for House.

He was doing this for his own benefit, his job, and for getting Cuddy off his back.

He was heading for House's apartment for what Cuddy believed was an offer for peace and a 'let's-forget-the-whole-thing' talk when he was actually heading over for some of House's leftover Chinese takeout and perhaps a cheesy movie that debuted on TV because it couldn't make it in theaters. It was an awkward attempt to try to rekindle their friendship.

And on Monday morning, when Wilson would share the story with Cuddy, it would magically transform into a sympathetic, drawn-out talk with House that had solved all of their problems.

Sure, it was not very House-ish, but Wilson figured he could get away with it. House's behavior had taken a ninety degree turn since his seemingly real feelings towards Wilson, so a somewhat effeminate 'talk' between the two of them could pass off as real.

The oncologist wavered on the door mat outside of House's apartment, taking a deep breath for preparation. He knocked briskly.

Wilson was not quite sure what sort of greeting he should be expecting from his friend. He was hesitant about even knocking. If Cuddy's worries about House's sanity after Wilson's rejection were well-founded, then perhaps he should be expecting a blow in the stomach, a door slammed in his face, or maybe even a threat to call security. After everything Wilson had done, he wouldn't be surprised if House would be yelling at him to get out of the building, whether he was in love or not.

So he held a bribe in his pocket.

After Cuddy had blackmailed him into apologizing to House with the threat of having him permanently overseeing all of House's cases for a month or two, he had agreed into seeing him. By putting House's possible sourness towards him into consideration, he had paid a visit to the prescription counter and gotten himself a bottle of vicodin for bribing purposes.

Wilson's hand went to his coat pocket, fingering the small bottle through the fabric.

The door creaked open.

At first, Wilson was lost by House's expression. The older doctor was biting his lower lip hard enough to bleed and looking Wilson up and down scrutinizingly. Wilson wondered if he should be taking a step backward or holding his hand out for a stiff but friendly handshake.

His lower lip quivered slightly in anticipation as he waited for a real reaction. Wilson figured he should be thrusting the vicodin towards him, but remained still. House sighed quietly before opening the door further.

"Come on in." he mumbled.

Wilson hesitantly stepped in.

"Here you go," he mumbled immediately, reaching for the vicodin bottle and holding it out for House.

House looked briefly at the bottle before he put it on the end table, frowning at Wilson. "Why are you here?"

"I was… I was hoping we would have dinner together and… maybe have a beer?" he suggested, hoping that he wasn't sounding like he was proposing an idea for an evening date.

His worries flew by House. "Sure," he agreed reluctantly, "is… is that the only reason you're here?"

"Of course." Wilson said immediately.

House knitted his eyebrows together curiously, "C'mon, Wilson," he coaxed, "you're here because Cuddy made you."

The younger doctor still firmly shook his head until he noticed House's disbelieving expression scowling at him. He sighed in defeat. "House, I…" he began, "I miss you. But I feel like I can't even be around you without me wondering if you used me to be a hero or if you're going to hit on me!"

"Wilson–"

"What the hell happened to our friendship, House?! I can't even have fun with you anymore!" Wilson cried out.

"Despite the fact that those lips of yours are just oh-so-irresistible," House teased with a smirk, "one rejection was enough, I don't need you to push me away from you. I haven't tried to flirt with you, I haven't tried to kiss you, I haven't tried to convert you."

Wilson looked silently at the floor, "I… guess so." He murmured. "I'm sorry." He added reluctantly.

"But you are looking very kissable today, so you best keep a safe distance." House winked playfully.

The oncologist shot up from the armchair he was about to sit in, raking a hand through his hair, "See?!" He shot defensively, "These… innuendos of yours are making me _really_ uncomfortable–"

"Would you calm down?" House barked, looking rather peeved, "You wouldn't be bothered by this if I hadn't confessed to you that I was in love with you." The older doctor limped over the sofa, nestling himself in the cushions.

"I'm sorry!" Wilson snapped heatedly, pacing around the back of the couch. "I just, god, House, I can't do this anymore! I can't make this work!" He roughly grabbed hold of the back of the couch, squeezing the leather covering with his fingers aggravatingly.

House fingered the pillow nearby uneasily, "What are you saying?" he asked slowly.

"I think… I think we should avoid each other until you get over this… this – _fixation_ you have on me."

Wilson could practically _feel_ the tension in the room being cut sharply, but only to be replaced with a despondence that sank lower and lower until it hit rock bottom. It was almost as if House's mood and his hope were now _miserable._

And it was Wilson's fault.

As much as he wanted to bang his head onto a wall, Wilson remained calm, gritting his teeth together.

"No." House mumbled.

And there was something in his voice that Wilson had rarely ever heard, and it was a desperate plead. It was the same voice he used when he was ill and wanted more morphine or when Cuddy would cut off his vicodin supply, but even then his voice had had a greedy growl to it, and now it was just hopeless begging. It made Wilson's heart bubble in a drowning mess.

He kicked himself for being so sensitive.

"Please," House murmured, "can we just… just sit down and talk about this?"

Oh no.

Wilson was afraid that this was going to happen. He actually _was_ going to have that sentimental conversation with his friend and once he would refuse House's offer of pretending like his confession had never happened, _he_ would come off looking like the ass again.

He wanted to run away, and he really _should_ have, but it was a lot harder to argue with House when he was being logical.

Wilson sighed, lowering himself into the armchair edgily.

"All right."

"Wilson," the diagnostician began, seemingly stumbling for the right words, "I know that you're uncomfortable. But… but even if you avoided me in the hospital for a year, I… I will always love you." he admitted.

"But–"

"Shut up," House said sharply, looking peeved, "don't interrupt. I don't care if you think you're going to turn me straight by avoiding me, because I'm not even gay in the first place."

Wilson tutted, "Yeah. Falling in love with a man is totally straight." He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

House pointed a finger at him sternly, "Hey," he said sharply, "I still think women are attractive. It's not like I find Chase or Kutner sexy."

The oncologist shrugged, "Fine," he said, "maybe you're just bisexual."

House rolled his eyes, "I didn't ask you to stay here so we could have philosophical conversations about my sexuality."

Wilson twitched, "What… what conversation are we supposed to be having?"

The other doctor glanced at Wilson, "I want you to trust me," he said, "I want you to believe that I'm not just trying to use my feelings to get people to feel sorry for me."

"House, nothing you can say–"

"You already believe me halfway," House interrupted, "because before you offered to avoid me for a few months so my feelings would go away. So either you believe that I'm in love with you, or you feel so uncomfortable around me that you have to lie so you don't have to hang out with me."

Wilson sighed, staring fixedly at his lap. "I'd like to believe you," he admitted, "it'd be nice to know that you can still fall in love."

"Ask me how it started."

Wilson's head shot up. It was bad enough that he was having this conversation with House, but to talk about the explicit details of his infatuation? He didn't know how this was at all relevant and he didn't want it to be. He felt as though he was fishing when he didn't want to be fishing. Like he was trying to catch a fish that was too big to even fit in his cooler. Actually, _House_ was the one fishing for Wilson to question his feelings, and Wilson didn't want to indulge in his every whim.

"Why would I want to do that?"

House smirked, "I know that you don't. But I want you to," he explained, "it makes sense. With all of my details, you'll see how vivid and real they are and then you'll believe me."

It was very reasonable. Wilson didn't want to admit it, halfway because he didn't want to encourage House's ego by telling him that he was right, and halfway because he didn't want to hear the details.

He rubbed at his temples, "Can we have the short version, please?"

"Just for saying that, you're getting the extra special extended version," House said smugly, toying fondly with the cane he had rested against the coffee table. "All right. Ask me when this began."

"When did this begin?" Wilson parroted dully, staring at the carpet.

House grunted as he hoisted his leg up onto the coffee table, "A while ago. I came back from my lunch with you the day after Amber's death and Thirteen got all suspicious about it and began harping me about my feelings about you. You remember the stages of acceptance on my board, right?"

Wilson could practically _hear_ the puzzle pieces falling into place. He felt like the biggest idiot for missing something that was right in front of him. House had even told him the truth about the words on the board that one night where he had sent his team home extra early.

"_Okay," House said finally, smacking his lips together, "Thirteen is under the impression that you and I are madly in love and that I cannot accept my feelings. She is attempting to play matchmaker either to kiss my ass or to feel noble before she dies of Huntington's."_

"How could I forget?" Wilson gritted out sourly, wanting to slap a hand onto his forehead. He refrained from doing so as House continued.

"I told her every time she brought it up that she was wrong. And I really thought she was," House shook his head bitterly, "then one night, I had a dream that I thought was real. And it confused me."

Wilson cocked a brow. Greg House, confused? He was surprised that his friend was even admitting his lack of all-knowing behavior.

"We were a couple in my dream," House muttered, "there was a lot more heat coming from you than what I thought a walking Care bear could give off."

The younger man refrained from bringing up the slightly offensive new nickname of _Walking Care bear_.

"And it escalated. Every moment with you was like feeding the fire." House worried his lower lip as he paused, "Until Cuddy started nagging me about not doing clinic duty and how I wasn't even hiding from it either. And as one thing led to another, she blackmailed me into telling you about my feelings."

Wilson remained quiet, fidgeting with his fingers.

"I wouldn't have told you," House confessed, his eyes meeting his friend's, "this wouldn't have happened. At least not for a long time, until I would be ready."

"Then…" the oncologist began, "then I guess this isn't your fault after all."

"No, it isn't." House agreed, "but the fault doesn't matter. Do you believe me?"

With every second that ticked by, Wilson felt as though there was the jeopardy theme getting steadily louder and more obnoxious in his head.

"Yes." he finally admitted, slumping back in his chair, "but that doesn't mean I want to pursue this."

"Wilson–"

"Don't, House! Just don't!" Wilson tugged at his hair frustratingly, "Why can't we just go back to the path we used to be on, just a doctor and another doctor, being friends?"

House sighed, "That path doesn't exist anymore."

The younger man shot up from his chair. "Then remake it." He ordered roughly, avoiding House's eyes as he stomped dramatically from the apartment, slamming the door behind himself.

--

House looked grimly at the door as Wilson slammed it histrionically.

_Drama Queen_, he thought gruffly, exhaustingly leaning against the couch cushions.

Why was it that every conversation he had with Wilson ended up in a storm from the room and provocative shouts thrown back and forth? Couldn't he have one civil conversation with his friend to solve what he had messed up so terribly?

He groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned against the lumpy couch pillow. His leg was stinging, but compared to the storm of dread that was thundering in his head his leg pain was just a simple, pesky fly.

This hurt more than it had with Stacy.

Cameron had once told him that hearts lived by being wounded, but he had never believed anything fruity and sugary that Cameron had shared with him. But he had never felt his heart beat harder against his chest either.

House feebly scanned the apartment. He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up again. Not to this nightmare, at least. He needed to take away his pain.

Like an angelic _ping_, House's eyes stopped searching around the room as they focused on the vicodin bottle that was still resting innocently on the end table. It was full. Untouched. Unopened.

It was the answers to all of his problems.

One painless swallow and the whole bottle would be empty. And that one painless swallow would let him forget and drop all of his troubles. It was a simple and easy solution. It was perfect. It would let him drift into the kind of sleep that he needed; the one that would let him drift to the world where issues were irrelevant.

And if he swallowed the whole bottle and wouldn't wake up to see anything again, then maybe Wilson would mourn him. And maybe he would realize just exactly what he was giving up.

A faint, wicked smile flittered onto House's lips. The bottle was calling House to it like a siren. With that one thought, _it's going to take the pain away_, House grabbed the bottle and promptly emptied the entire contents into his palm. All of the pills bumpily tumbled down his throat.

He hobbled off the couch, his vision slightly hazy as he grabbed for his cane.

And the pain… it was trickling away like water dripping into a drain.

House had been right. It had taken the pain away. But it didn't take long until he collapsed, motionless, on the floor.

His last thought before he hit the floor was _Wilson better be sorry_.

_CHAPTER 14 TEASER_: "What would you choose, vicodin or me?" Wilson challenged.

_AN_: How many of you noticed that you got your chapter alert for my story two days after I posted it? I hate it when fanfiction doesn't send you your review/story alerts for a little bit. It's a bit annoying.

Anyway, I can't tell you how much I love writing House in emotional turmoil. XD It sounds cruel, but I feel like it's easy to write House miserable!

I'm giving a loud thank you to _Lord of the Shadows_ for being such a dedicated reviewer. All of their reviews make me smile like I have a hanger in my mouth :D Thank you for being one of those reviewers who makes me want to post the next chapter in ten minutes after I post the previous one! :P


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

Wilson was grumbling as he stomped towards his car parked on the side of the street, giving one last nasty glare to the apartments that House resided in.

It certainly didn't ease his spirits that Cuddy would be on his back again on Monday about what had happened between him and House. He hadn't had leftover Chinese takeout and watched a cheesy movie. He _had_ had a very sentimental talk with House, but that had not solved their problems.

Wilson was _hungry_. He had relied on Chinese takeout and completely ignored a regular dinner of his own.

He thumped his head against the steering wheel. Why was it he and House couldn't have a conversation anymore without it drifting to House's infatuation and ending in a fight that usually Wilson always seemed to initiate? Despite the fact that the friendship they used to have was messy and complicated he'd prefer that over the awkward and disastrous relationship they had created now.

What was House even thinking? Did he honestly think that Wilson would be eager to start a relationship with a sardonic, insensitive, and arrogant idiot?

Wilson was not fond of what this whole ordeal was doing to his behavior. People nagging on his back and him snapping at patients. The fact that he was the big villain in the picture was bothersome. It was like an itch he just couldn't find. Was he supposed to lie about his feelings and live in a world of misery with House as his male partner? It was insane what people were expecting of him.

Wilson pulled his car over at his building, slamming the door shut on his way out. Any passerby could state that the oncologist did have a certain slump in his step as he trotted up to his door, reaching for his keys.

Just as he had removed his jacket and nestled himself into his couch, the phone rang, making Wilson jump. He hastily grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?" He prayed that this wasn't House playing a revengeful prank call, or worse, House yelling at him over the phone and hanging up before Wilson could protest his arguments.

"Wilson?" Wilson felt his lips tug upwards in a relieved smile as he heard Cuddy's voice through the receiver.

"What is it, do I have to come back in to the hospital?"

"No," Cuddy brushed off immediately, "I wanted to ask you how things went with House."

Wilson wanted to hit his forehead against the coffee table. This was not something to call your employees with at eight-thirty in the evening after assuming that they took your blackmail.

When he remained silent, Cuddy pressed on firmly, "Well? I know you don't want to overlook House's practice for a few months so it was obvious that you would try to patch things up with him like I said you should–"

"Things didn't go that well… Cuddy, it's just impossible to deal with him," he heard the woman take a deep breath to begin ranting and hastily interrupted her, "But I'll fix it on Monday–"

The female groaned over the receiver, "Wilson," she growled, "I cannot stand another day of the smartest doctor in my building doing nothing but moping in his office all day long. Without him solving cases, he's just a rude and inconsiderate jerk that doesn't get anything done. _Call him_."

"He's not going to want to talk to me." Wilson reasoned, sighing.

"Try anyway."

The loud and everlasting click on the end of the receiver sounded. Wilson snarled at the phone. This was not a damn movie where actors and actresses hung up on each other for added drama. He slammed it down back into its place before dialing House's number reluctantly.

It rang. And it rang. And it rang.

It would be stupid for House to not pick up the phone. It's not like he had caller ID to avoid Wilson's calls and anybody else's, for that matter. Wilson didn't want to leave a message and call Cuddy back saying that that was his impersonal way of solving problems, an answering machine with no sarcastic comebacks to rile him up instead of talking to House about the situation.

He hung up, and called again.

And after that, one more time.

This was strange.

Wilson furrowed his brows together, a slight twinge of worry and regret staring to overwhelm in with small waves. He hurriedly dialed Cuddy's office number.

"This is Dr. Cuddy–"

"He's not picking up," Wilson muttered urgently. He didn't know why he was suddenly afraid for House. This wasn't the first time that the older doctor simply ignored the phone. He could be having an evening nap, or playing the piano too loudly to hear the phone, or maybe he wasn't even home at all. There was no need for his fingers to be shaking.

"What? Wilson?"

"House isn't picking up. I called three times."

"Then leave a message." Cuddy said.

"Just because he's upset doesn't mean he shouldn't answer his phone. Something could have happened." Wilson pressed beseechingly.

"If you're so worried, why don't you go check on him?" Cuddy said simply.

Wilson worried his lower lip. What if he was just overreacting? What if he would break down House's door because he didn't have a key anymore, only to find him sitting on the couch, drunk? Or just sitting on the couch?

"…Wilson?"

"I'm here. And I will." He concluded, and thrust the phone back into its holder.

Despite the fact that the roads were somewhat quiet and peaceful during nine at night, Wilson was not enjoying the empty roads illuminated with the gentle streetlights or the shadowed scenery. He was speeding through the streets and skidding on the curbs as though it was as slippery as ice. The moment he had parked his car he rushed from the sidewalk and up the steps to the apartments.

He stood blankly in front of House's door, attempting to listen through the wood for the sound of a mellow piano playing or the TV in the background. It was silent.

Wilson cursed himself for having given up his key. He pondered using a credit card or a bobby pin to open the lock, but he had neither of them with him. The only option left was breaking open the door, and Wilson was never the type to be able to smash through wood with his shoulder alone.

He knocked insistently on the door.

"_House!_" he yelled, trying not to let his fear sound through, "House, open the door please!"

There was not even a lazy grunt, a rude comment, or the sound of House's cane tapping softly on the floor.

Wilson bit his lip.

With a deep breath, he shuffled a few steps back before charging at the door like a livid bull. His shoulder banged against the door painfully and a sickening crack filled the hall, but the wood was still standing strong. He grumbled, nursing his shoulder.

This time, he walked back several yards, his other shoulder forward. Shutting his eyes tightly, he rammed his body against the door.

It gave way.

Promptly, Wilson opened his eyes as he heard the sound of splintering wood. It was that moment that he realized he was falling with the door as he frantically tried to claw onto the doorframe before his body hit the floor with a dull _thud_.

A splinter rammed its way into Wilson's hip and his shoulder. He groaned agonizingly, rolling over onto his other side to remove the chips tenderly. Blood oozed out, but Wilson ignored it as he made his way up from the ground and examined the apartment.

He froze.

House was sprawled, practically lifeless, on the floor without even a twitch of body. And lying innocently next to him was an empty bottle of vicodin.

"No." Wilson murmured.

It would be one thing if House had taken on overdose of allergy medicine buried in the back of his cabinets that was accumulating dust, but this was different. Wilson had supplied him with a bottle of vicodin and ran out leaving House distraught with just the perfect amount of misery to want to reach for the vicodin bottle.

And this time Wilson wasn't allowed to be mad, because House had not stolen one of his dead patient's prescriptions. Wilson had offered him an overdose on a silver platter, so it was his responsibility to make House healthy.

He really _was_ the villain in all of this.

Wilson kneeled down next to the older doctor, lifting his head up slightly. He needed either smelling salts or a very heavy amount of potpourri to stuff underneath House's nose, but right now waking up was not even the problem. It was saving him that was the problem.

He grabbed the phone on the end table, dialing Cuddy's office number yet again.

"This is Dr. C–"

"House overdosed," this time it wasn't only Wilson's hand shaking, but it was his tongue as well, "we need to bring him in." With that he hung up, clumsily pushing the phone back up onto the table.

He pulled House farther into his lap, almost subconsciously petting his hair as he waited for the ambulance.

--

Something wasn't right.

As House's eyes fluttered open, the first thing that flitted across his vision was a hospital room ceiling, and that wasn't right. If he had died, being back in the hospital was certainly not heaven.

The next thing that processed through his brain was that he needed to throw up. And _now_.

Feebly, House pushed his head off the pillow and promptly vomited on the side of the bed. Several nurses yelped in surprise.

As he lowered his head back onto the bed, his blurry vision focused in on the man sitting on the side of his bed.

_Wilson_.

"Wilson." He mumbled faintly.

"You're such an idiot." The oncologist said acidly, shaking his head at the floor. He got up from the bed and shuffled toward House. "But this time it's my fault that you're an idiot. Which really makes me the idiot."

Just hearing Wilson's voice brought the pain back. House groaned, rubbing at his hairline tiredly.

"Are you trying to apologize?" House rasped dustily.

Wilson stared fixedly at the pillow, "I don't know," he admitted, "I… I guess so. I just feel bad. This is my fault."

"Yeah," the diagnostician choked throatily, coughing meekly in the process, "it is. But I forgive you." He held out his hand in what was meant to be a friendly and peaceful handshake, but instead Wilson took it in his palm and squeezed it fondly.

"What are you doing?" House croaked, staring oddly at their interlinked hands.

"I didn't mean to cause you this much pain." Wilson said quietly.

"So you believe me?"

The younger doctor nodded, sighing, "I'm sorry." He muttered.

"It's all right," House said hoarsely, "just because I'm not going to fall out of love doesn't mean I don't want to. I never meant to put you in a position where you were blackmailed by Cuddy."

Wilson chuckled silently, "I guess it's just that anyone can catch your eye," he said, "but it takes someone special to catch your heart. I thought I was just in your eyes."

"Don't make this all sentimental. All of this wishy-washy lovey-dovey stuff is _not_ what I feel for you, all right?" House scolded.

Wilson ignored his comment, "I'm sorry I can't be more than a friend to you."

House shook his head, brushing it off, "I never thought you would be. You were that one thing I want that's the only thing out of my reach, and unlike others, I'm not going to spend all life chasing after that apple hung on a string and a stick. It's just impossible."

"You're making metaphors again," Wilson smiled, "that must mean you're getting better."

House shrugged, remaining silent as he listened to the steady beeping of the machines monitoring him.

Wilson released House's fingers and took the empty vicodin bottle that he had pocketed out of his coat, shaking his head at it. He tossed it deftly into the nearby trashcan, "It's just one addiction after the other, isn't it?" he said sourly. "The vicodin… me…"

"What addiction about you? Loving you?" House scoffed.

"_Annoying_ me." Wilson corrected, pacing around the bed, "during this entire time that you were _in love_ you only annoyed me."

"Wilson–"

"If you had to choose one, what would you pick?" Wilson asked grimly, his jaw set.

"What?"

"What would you choose, vicodin or me?" he challenged, putting his hands on his hips.

"I thought you said you believed me." House said.

"Just answer the damn question!"

"But – but I need the pills."

"The pain is in your head, House! You've told me a million times that I am not in your head! So what would you choose?"

The air was silent except for the continuous beeping. Wilson tapped his foot quietly, waiting impatiently for an answer. The tension in the room had the consistency of jello being put in the freezer for over a month.

"I knew it," Wilson said, throwing his hands up in the air, "I _am_ in your head. I was right all along! There's nothing nicer than being told that you're second best to pain medication." He headed for the door, shaking his head as he went.

Just as he reached for the handle, House rasped out, "You."

"What?" Wilson turned.

"I would choose you."

The brown-haired man squinted his eyes, "Seriously?"

"I love the vicodin," House confessed, "but I love you more."

"I…" Wilson began, "thank you."

"You're welcome." He replied dully, sighing.

House knew all along that Wilson would never end up choosing him. He would end up choosing some girl that reminded him the least of House possible, and that would be just a way to prove to himself that he wanted nothing to do with his doctor friend romantically. He knew that even if House would lose Wilson's friendship, he wouldn't get back the heart Wilson had won from him. It was a quagmire that never seemed to want to end. Misery was etched right into the situation.

"I think you should go," House said croakily, "It's getting late."

Wilson's eyes flickered to his wristwatch. "You're right. I… I should get home. Get – get better, House." And with that, he turned toward the door without taking a glance back.

But whether he meant that House should get better concerning the overdose or the infatuation, he couldn't tell.

_AN_: Wow. I can't believe how many people are totally _bashing_ Wilson in their reviews!! It's truly amazing. XD How many people out there think Wilson does need a little bastarding up in the show??

Meanwhile, everyone who lives in America, I hope you had a great Fourth of July filled with fireworks. In my neighborhood there were small, pathetic fireworks and the big ones didn't come till I was asleep… :D

And another thing, I'd like to thank _LadyPurple_ who is in the midst of creating a House/Wilson video based on this story. I couldn't be more honored! :P

Lastly, I'm giving a loud thanks to _D.Is.So.The.Man._, a wonderful guy and a great friend. All of his reviews are like a slice of heaven, and I don't know what I would do if I wouldn't have him to be all analytical about what happens next and how the characters are secretly feeling. Sometimes I feel like he knows more about my story than I do, and that's golden :D


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

House did certainly not feel better.

Promptly before his release from the hospital, House vividly recalled the nurses telling him that his condition had improved and that all of the vicodin from the overdose had been flushed out of his system. But House did not feel any sort of improvement in himself. He felt that his entire mind was corroded with the pain of knowing that he was getting nowhere with Wilson. The overdose hadn't even sent Wilson over the edge – at least to House's knowledge – from the way the oncologist had acted in House's room before had made it seem as though Wilson wouldn't really mind if House would die. He hadn't mentioned one single cliché _I don't know what I would do without you_ or an _I can't lose you_. Yes, they were incredibly tacky lines, but House would prefer cheesy over nothing at all.

To him, his condition had worsened.

Emotionally, at least.

He swallowed another vicodin, drumming a steady beat out onto his couch pillow with his fingertips. House's eyes were zeroed in on the phone standing impassively on the end table, luring the doctor to grab it and dial. Dial Wilson's number and try to ask him if House meant _anything _to him at all.

And naturally, House was never the kind to avoid temptation. He grabbed the receiver and called Wilson, clicking his tongue as he waited for the dull ringing to be replaced with a voice.

"Hello?" Wilson's exhausted voice greeted meekly.

"Hi," House mumbled, "Wilson, can you come over here? Please?"

"Why, are you all right? You're not doing something bad with the vicodin again, are you?" An urgent, alertful tone, almost harsh, slashed its way into Wilson's words. House smiled at the concern that was practically radiating from the earpiece.

"I'm fine, can you just come?"

"I… uh – sure." Wilson finally agreed, and hung up the phone without a trace of a goodbye.

It took only ten minutes for the oncologist to arrive at House's apartment, knocking dutifully at the door without hesitation. House limped hastily off the couch.

"Hey," he muttered quietly, briefly making eye contact with Wilson. "Come in." he added awkwardly.

"So… what's going on?" Wilson inquired.

"I needed to talk to you."

"What about?"

House hobbled his way over to the couch, grunting as he fell upon the cushions. He patted the spot besides him briefly before glancing expectantly up at Wilson. As the younger doctor took his seat, House groped for his vicodin bottle and held it up at eyelevel. He chuckled at it dryly before he tossed it repeatedly in the air and pointed it in Wilson's direction.

"What would you do," House challenged, "if I swallowed this whole bottle _right now_?"

Wilson blinked. And then he blinked again. And then without further ado he snatched up the bottle, pocketing it, before he snarled at House. "Are you _serious_?" he sneered, "Why is it that the only way you think you can get attention from people is to hurt yourself?"

"I said _if_," House scowled back, "I want to know what you would do. So either answer the damn question or I'll actually swallow the whole bottle and find out for myself."

"What the hell do you want from me, House?" Wilson asked defensively, "Do you want my comfort, my concern? Is this your desperate attempt to get love from me?"

"No!" House yelled, flailing his arms at his knees exasperatedly, "I just want to know if you would even give a damn if I died!"

Wilson shook his head incredulously, standing up from the couch.

"You're pathetic, you know that, House? You don't have faith in anything and you think that the only way that people will notice you is if you act like the innocent victim, whether it's loving me or overdosing on pills."

"So is that a yes?" The diagnostician pressed.

"A yes to what question?!"

House sighed in frustration, "Would you give a damn if I died?! Would you be upset over my death as you were over Amber's?!"

"I _cannot_ have this conversation with you!"

"Can't or won't?" House raised his eyebrows curiously. Wilson glowered at him.

"You really don't know to keep someone in your life," he accused acidly, "Stacy, me, you even drove away your entire team last year–"

"That's different! I wasn't _in love_ with my team."

"Oh, stop using that as an excuse!" Wilson ordered roughly, "You don't even know how to handle your feelings!"

"And you know to how handle your feelings better? You were as messy as a broken glass house during all of your divorces!"

"Don't be so immature!" the brown-haired man shot aggressively, "You're acting like a schoolgirl!"

"No, if I'd be a schoolgirl I'd be batting my eyelashes and getting you drunk so I can stuff my hands down your pants." House observed sourly, finally stepping up from the couch.

"See, this is _exactly_ why I can't love you!" Wilson shouted.

The moment Wilson uttered those words House froze. He didn't want to hear _why_ someone rejected him, because House was certainly not going to change. And he also didn't want to hear someone he loved rant on about the things that were damaged about him.

"You make these offensive jokes and comments and you don't give a damn about people's feelings! You're _damaged_, House!"

"Almost undamaged." House pointed out quietly. The room's temperature was dropping rapidly to him. He should have shouted back, saying that Wilson didn't consider House's feelings when he crushed his heart on the balcony a few weeks ago. But revenge was not something House was seeking right now. He wanted to sink onto the couch and let the pillows swallow him, but instead he limped over to Wilson and pushed him roughly up against the wall with one hand.

"What–" Wilson began as his back hit the wall with a thud. He emitted a silent _oof_.

"Before you accuse me of being damaged," House grumbled, "look in the mirror. But I still want you. I never thought I'd be the humbler one of the two of us."

"House–"

"Please," House pleaded quietly, his eyes tentatively meeting Wilson's, the growl entirely dispersed from his voice, "please just give me a chance." He took two, unremarkable shuffles forward. Wilson didn't notice.

"I'm going to tell you the exact same thing you told me when Amber died," he muttered, "_move on_, House."

House ignored him, "Please." He repeated, "It feels right."

"How do you know?"

"Just… just watch me." House didn't know what possessed him to lean over and brush his lips against Wilson's softer than a feather stroking skin. Their mouths were barely even touching. But apparently, something had possessed Wilson as well, because he hadn't moved away. House had halfway expected to press his lips against a wall, and the shock of feeling the smoothness of Wilson's mouth against his almost made him jump back in surprise.

Ever since House had finally accepted the fact that he was in love with Wilson, his confidence had been wheedling away to a small little grape of egotism. And by doing this, it seemed to be growing back into the watermelon sized ego that he used to have with every second that passed that Wilson wasn't pushing him away in revulsion.

But then again, it wasn't really a very bold kiss. There were only two pairs of lips, both slightly parted, barely pressing against each other. And the moment that House wrapped his fingers around Wilson's neck in an attempt to deepen the kiss, the oncologist snapped away as if a fire had suddenly burnt his mouth, startled by the extra contact. House glanced up at his eyes hesitantly, wanting to crawl away like a turtle concealed by its shell.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled finally, taking several steps back.

"No, House, I–"

"You don't need to say anything." House said immediately, avoiding Wilson's expectant eyes. "It was my fault."

"House, I… I think I should go." Wilson said quietly, "I would stay, but, I – Jesus, House – every inch of you smells of disaster. And I just found out that it tastes like disaster as well."

"Well," House began silently, pressing his back up against the wall as he fidgeted with his cane uneasily. "I guess that proves that you and I wouldn't do well together."

He felt Wilson's arm brushing his shoulder briefly before the oncologist rushed out of the room almost shamefully.

House sighed, touching his palm to his forehead, not all that surprised to feel his skin burning up. There was still a tingling and slight pressure on his lips as though Wilson was still lingering. He wished that he was.

This entire affair had gone too far. It was no longer just House's denial and silly yet still constant feud with Thirteen about his feelings, it was no longer House's infatuation, it was no longer just a stupid confession in the moonlight, it was no longer just a jeopardized friendship, it was now an over-the-top swirl of a mess all clashing horribly in House's life. The frustration, the overwhelming emotions, the misery, the _kiss_ – if all of those things were ingredients for a recipe, House would be cooking dog food instead of a gourmet four-course dinner.

Immediately, the glimmer of hope that was still left from all of Thirteen's and Cuddy's encouraging began to flicker again as House wondered if Wilson was thinking about what had just happened between the two of them as much as the diagnostician was. Had he been thinking about House at all over the past few days? Had he been worried about House in the hospital? Was _he_ the one who had even found House? Why hadn't he pulled away at that sorry excuse of a kiss?

There were too many questions, even for House. Even when he went to take a long, mull-things-over shower to wash out his thoughts with the hottest water that the pipes would create it seemed as though the steam would float up overhead into subtle question marks. And the worst part about the questions was that there were no answers. Just a thousand unanswerable inquires just lingering, unfinished, in the front of House's mind and the tip of his tongue just ready to spill and ask away.

Wilson was completely unpredictable. House never remembered Wilson be so damn indecisive in the past, but then again, everybody had changed; House had fallen in love with the one doctor he never thought he would at Princeton Plainsboro.

But whatever he did around House, his mood would change as fast as someone could snap their fingers. Almost as if he had a personality disorder, Wilson would be the concerned man constantly apologizing on the balcony for breaking House's heart, and then an hour later he would be the man in a livid and almost incoherent state, blaming House for his seemingly nonexistent feelings. Then again, he would be the man trying to come over to fix things up over Chinese takeout and TV, and soon afterward he would be the doctor who just needs to start the big fights, and then the soothing friend who stroked House's hand in the hospital room.

Nothing made sense. All of the pieces of the puzzle seemed to belong to separate puzzles. Wilson just couldn't make up his mind as to what he wanted, what he wanted to do, what he wanted to say or feel, or even how much respect he had for House. If House didn't harbor such deep feelings for his friend, he would have rudely told him to snap out of his irresolute demeanor and make a choice.

But even House wasn't acting like House.

Everything was _insane_.

_CHAPTER 16 TEASER_: "I… I guess I just want to… I want to apologize for all of the pain I've caused you." Wilson admitted quietly, staring fixedly at his impeccably shiny shoes.

_AN_: I have to admit, this it the only story I've ever written where I've halted the romance for SO BLOODY LONG. Usually, I can't stand it where I have to read chapter after chapter after chapter of no romance, and if there any of you out there who have been cursing me and pointing at the screen yelling "I WANT SOME ACTION!!" I have included a kiss in this chapter!! :D

I'd like to give my huge appreciation and thanks to _J.Vengeance_, yet another reviewer who has the ability for me to spend my entire day all smiles because of such a brightly encouraging review! Those reviewers out there who really look into the characters and analyze the plots are the ones that make me feel like people are truly reading my story, and _J.Vengeance_ is just one of those reviewers! Thank you so much, and lots of love!


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

There was a storm cooking up around the sky as House peered up through his car window, glancing untrustingly at the dark clouds looming over the hospital. He drew his coat further around him as he limped hastily to the nearby doors.

A little peeved, he flexed his leg painfully as he grabbed for his vicodin bottle. With a scowl, he tossed the empty bottle into the lobby trashcan and didn't bother to put it in properly when it clattered clear of the wastebasket and fell onto the floor noisily.

Hobbling over to the prescription counter, House rapped his knuckles impatiently on the countertop. "Vicodin." He growled gruffly to the lady bustling around the shelves.

"I thought Dr. Cuddy filled a prescription out for you yesterday–"

"It's empty," he pressed insistently, holding out his hand for the medicine, "c'mon."

"Dr. House–"

"My leg hurts when it's damp outside."

"But it hasn't rained yet–"

House slammed his fist on the counter. The lady jumped in surprise. "Vicodin! Hurry up, I have patients to save!" he smirked in satisfaction when the nurse reluctantly searched for the appropriate bottle on the shelves.

"Hey," Wilson called out, strolling up to House with a hesitant smile.

"Hey," House greeted shortly, snatching his vicodin bottle of the nurse's fingers.

"Uh, Dr. House?" the prescription lady began tentatively, wringing her hands, "I, uh, I was in your patient's room two days ago when you saved her from going to cardiac arrest."

House furrowed his eyebrows suspiciously at the nurse.

"And, well, uh, I… I think it was really heroic! I haven't been able to think about anything else since then." She blushed a blotchy shade of crimson.

"You haven't been able to think of anything else?" Wilson asked skeptically.

"That's _sad_," House told her bluntly, "get a life."

Her blush flooded into her neck as played nervously with a strand of hair, "Yeah, I know…" she said, laughing. Wilson gaped at her as he realized she was taking his insult as a compliment and frowned as he began processing what her intentions were. Subconsciously, he edged protectively towards House.

"Well, I was just wondering, if, um, you'd like to have some coffee after my shift is over?"

Wilson gaped back and forth from House to the prescription counter lady as though he was watching an intense tennis match. The giggling, the blushing, the hesitance; Wilson was painfully reminded of the girls in high school. This was a _hospital_. In the back of his mind he made a note to speak to Cuddy about the unprofessional flirt at the prescription counter.

"Sorry, honey, you pay a price for me." House said shortly, popping open his pill bottle as he limped off, Wilson at his heels. His jaw was still hanging open.

"House!" he hissed, "House, she was _flirting_ with you!"

"What a crime," the diagnostician murmured as he swallowed a vicodin deftly, pocketing his medicine, "what's wrong with flirting with the staff? You do it all the time."

"She – she's like twenty years younger than you are!"

House grinned evilly, "I know. That's how I like 'em."

"House, it is _wrong_!" Wilson said pointedly, glaring sternly in his direction, trying his best to look down on his smirking friend.

"I'm just curious, that's all."

"Curiosity killed the cat!"

House leaned in a few inches, smiling smugly as he whispered, "We're not cats, my dear Wilson."

"But, but," Wilson stammered, "you were flirting_ back_!"

"Is someone jealous?" the older doctor observed with a sly smile.

Wilson froze, hands planting themselves firmly at his hips, "No," he answered stiffly, "but I thought you were in love with _me_."

"So…?" House fished, "do you want me to stay that way forever?"

"No! It's just, well, you're being so unfaithful!"

"To whom?"

Wilson rolled his eyes, "House, you _hypocrite_," he shook his head disgustingly.

And apparently, that was the best insult he had to throw, as Wilson immediately hastened off, chastising himself in his mind at his clearly obvious envy. Quietly, House smiled to himself.

--

The soft pitter-patter of the drizzling rain on the window did not bother House in the slightest as he sat in his office, feet on his desk and his back lounging languidly against his chair with an elegant grace he had been empty of for the past few weeks. He should have been focusing on the case at hand and the dying patient in the nearby room, but his mind was wrapped around the events of the evening before where Wilson had not flinched in repugnance after House had been daring enough to brush their lips together. It was an improvement.

But House was not even caring about the way that his relationship with Wilson was inching slowly towards a more agreeable point, the only thing he was caring about was that he wanted to relive that moment of bliss where his mouth had touched Wilson's soft lips. He wanted to do it again.

Maybe the ego he had regained after the kiss was going to his head and letting him be more hopeful that he should be, but House was positive that Wilson would not be quite as unresponsive as he had been last time if he dared to do it again.

"You don't look upset."

Thirteen's startled voice pulled House from his contemplations. "What?" he asked cluelessly.

"I said, you don't look upset." She repeated, a tug of a faint smile at her lips.

"Oh, sorry. Forgot." House scowled, growling at Thirteen.

"And you're making sarcastic comments," her bud of a grin grew its way into a smile that could rip apart her mouth. "Did something… did something happen between you and Wilson?"

"Why are you here?" House demanded.

Thirteen rolled her eyes, handing him a file. "These are the patient's results from the amyloidosis test and–"

The door to House's office swung open gently and Wilson strolled in cautiously, eyes flicking from his friend to Thirteen. Thirteen spun around, immediately halting her ramble on test results.

"Sorry," Wilson murmured, "uh, can I interrupt?"

Thirteen gave House a discreet grin of smugness before she nodded curtly in Wilson's direction and skirted out the door. "I'll just come back later." She announced, failing miserably to keep the smile out of her voice.

"Hey." House greeted quietly.

"Hey." Wilson repeated, a tentative tone in his voice that made House automatically ponder all the reasons for his friend's visit. Bullet points forming in his brain, House had already created seven motives, all negative.

"What's… what's going on?" he fished, searching Wilson's face for a sign of readable emotion. Wilson rubbed at the back of his head uneasily.

"All right, well, this isn't going to be easy," he began with a heavy sigh, "I came here to apologize."

House furrowed his eyebrows together suspiciously, "Did Cuddy make you do this?"

The oncologist shook his head, "I wish," he admitted, "I've just… I've started to see what all this has been doing to you. You've been a miserable wreck and it's all my fault! Patients have been dying like fruit flies in your office just because you can't focus on anything logically because of _me_! You overdosed because of _me_! And my… my jealousy was completely out of line – and… and you should know that I would care if you died, House. You're a pain in the ass, but you're the only one in this whole city who gets me. I need you to know that I wouldn't ever want to lose you." His sentences were barely even forming into coherent statements.

House smiled softly. "What are you trying to say, Wilson?"

"I… I guess I just want to… I want to apologize for all of the pain I've caused you." Wilson admitted quietly, staring fixedly at his impeccably shiny shoes.

"I'm–"

Wilson ignored him, charging through his speech with no stops, "And the only reason I didn't answer you when you asked me if I would care if you died was because I'd already thought you died that one night you overdosed and I was practically having a panic attack, god, House, _I_ didn't even know I cared that much, but it hurts to think that I may have lost you!"

Despite the fact that the oncologist's words were being rambled out of his mouth as fast as they would be if he would have vomited them on the carpet, they were processing through House's mind like a sped-down scene in a movie. And with every sorrowful word that he heard, House's heart swelled up in hope. Wilson was apologizing for everything, _everything_ he had ever hurt House with. And with the fact that House was willing to easily let go of his grudge and forgive him meant he and his friend were back on a clean slate and that all of their fighting and tension would be gone. Even just the prospect was temptingly inviting.

"And already when I was knocking down your door to get to you after your overdose I was missing you, I was worried out of mind that you would have died and I never got to tell you that I'm sorry! I just thought – I just thought that if I kept on avoiding you and getting angry with you and fighting with you, your feelings would go away, but I just kept on coming back to you! It made me realize just how much I value our friendship, and I don't care if you're in love with me for the rest of your life, I don't want to mess up the one thing in my life that makes sense!"

There was a lot of arm flailing. There were a lot of breathy sentences as Wilson tried to catch his breath. There was a point where House wasn't even listening anymore because his brain had been completely soaked up in exhilaration that he didn't think he could hold any more. So he did the only thing he could to make Wilson shut up.

His cane firm on the floor, House lifted himself to his feet and grabbed Wilson by the neck as he pressed their mouths together hard enough to bruise. Their teeth clicked together painfully and Wilson stumbled back a few steps with the force of the doctor's charge, House dragging himself with him the whole time as they seemed to be fused together by the lips.

It was amazing how responsive Wilson's mouth was even though it wasn't moving at all. House was entranced by the sweet ache that seemed to be pouring from his friend's lips, the want and need that he wasn't sure _who_ it was coming from, and the muffled moans in the back of the throat. He couldn't distinguish who was doing what anymore as grabbed Wilson's arms with white knuckles.

When he finally pulled back, Wilson was staring, breathless, in House's direction, clearly startled and windswept by the impulsive kiss. But the thing that pleased House the most was that Wilson wasn't scowling in disgust or pursing his lips together as the vein in his temple throbbed like he did when he was suppressing his furiousness. It was purely surprise etched on his face as he let out the breath he was holding in. House wanted to do it again and again and again, because the satisfaction of kissing Wilson was like ice cream on a hot day or curling up with hot cocoa in front of a fire in the winter. It was addictive, and House was craving the feel of Wilson's lips against his. It was hotter than fire but sweeter than sugar. The diagnostician licked his lips, feeling the taste of Wilson lingering on his mouth. He wanted it to be there forever and not simply tingle as a forgettable aftertaste.

And Wilson was still not running from House's office madly. He wasn't even stepping back. But then again, he wasn't smiling or pulling the older doctor in again.

"All right, Wilson," House began, his voice suddenly raspy from their breathless kiss, "clearly I accept your apology. You can either run from this room or kiss me again. Neither is not an option and there is no secret number three. What is it going to be?"

Wilson's fingers brushed against his lips for just a fraction of a second. "House, this is never going to work," he mumbled, "_us_. I don't want to risk what we have."

The oncologist looked ruefully into House's rejected, hollow eyes before he briefly ran his fingers through House's hair and gave him a gentle kiss at the temple. With that, he hurried out of the office with a hand rubbing at his forehead distressfully.

House could still feel the ghost of a sweet pressure on his lips. No matter what Wilson said, his words ended up hurting. No matter what House said, he would never be good enough for Wilson.

The rips that their friendship had been torn through had been sown back together at the seams with patches, but House didn't want a damaged friendship, even if it was almost undamaged. Damaged was damaged, just like House was. And he couldn't do a thing to change that. When he was five years old and tripped over his bike as he rode clumsily around the neighborhood, he had cut his knee. House no longer felt the pain years later, but he still had the scar. Just like he would always have the scar that Wilson had inflicted upon him.

Everywhere he looked, House saw Wilson. Even his own office was tainted with Wilson's marks. It was haunting. Whether it was Princeton Plainsboro or even his own apartment, Wilson was practically written on the walls, the ceilings, the floors, and even House's clothing. There was no escaping him in New Jersey.

House ran a hand through his hair. He no longer felt at home here. It was a lot more like a cave that was blocked off with tumbled down debris; he was trapped in this hell that didn't let him see any light. And every time that a pebble broke free from the pile of rocks and House saw a flicker of sun sparkle into the cave, it was covered a minute later by a bigger stone.

He thought he had been going forward this whole time, when really, he was just going backwards. And where was he going if he was going backwards?

House wanted to start over.

Woodenly, he eased himself into his chair. He was shying away from even his job, something that he cared about and that came to him like second-nature. Forget that, _first_-nature. The fact that Wilson was squeezing his way into everything House enjoyed was irking.

There was anger within him he was already struggling to rein under control. For a second, he tried to picture himself being subjected to Wilson's world, and couldn't help but scoff at how selfish the oncologist was.

There were patients dying on the very floor House was on, but for the first time, he couldn't care less. He was dying inside his mind, and his brain had always been the one thing that would keep him sane. Like he was falling apart at the seams, House had shadowy circles adorning his eyes, making him look even more wounded than he already felt.

He was done with this war.

He needed to _move_ on.

He needed to get over Wilson.

He needed to have the demons that haunted his thoughts be put to rest.

He needed to stop being the injured victim.

_He needed to leave New Jersey._

And for the first time in quite a few weeks, House smiled, knowing that he was finally thinking clearly.

_CHAPTER 17 TEASER_: "House is _leaving_ New Jersey!" Thirteen yelled at the baffled oncologist, her mind a haze of mystification and anger and breathlessness from dashing through the halls of the hospital.

_AN_: Maybe Wilson was being a bastard, but hopefully this chapter sort of helped clear up why. And hopefully all of you can see a bud of romance sprouting because I can… :D

I can't even begin to process that this story is slowly coming to a close… I'm going to miss all of you devoted reviewers so much when everything ends… meanwhile, back to happier things…

I'm giving my thanks to loyal reviewer _September's_ _Nobara_, definitely one of those readers who actually takes notice of the depth of the story and I thank them for that! Another thing I will point out is that they are one of those people who review the updated chapters within the next hour of the update… I love such committed readers! _September's Nobara_ is just one of those readers who is partway responsible for my smile after I read my review!

I love you all! Hugs and kisses in exchange for reviews!


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

Packing was a bitch.

House hated packing. But it was a vital procedure for him to execute if he wanted to ever leave New Jersey successfully.

The plan was still swimmy and unfinished in House's mind. What he would pack, who he would tell, where he would go and how he would get there… they were all questions that were waiting for House to brush them away. No matter how confusing and how nonsensical this idea was, it was logical to House, so he would blow through all of the obstacles in his way like a livid bull, and he'd be damned if anyone could stop him. He was looking forward to everything, the new people, the new life, the new situations. And all of the problems he would be facing would have to be smaller than the one he was facing now in New Jersey. Turning from a lovesick and unfocused doctor to a confident and egotistical bastard was the kind of transition and change that House was always embracing with two open arms. Maybe even three, if he had that many.

The only thing he was not looking forward to was the packing.

Placing his life into a suitcase was just a bit too extreme, even for House. The necessities were his vicodin, his cane, and his motorcycle, a very odd combination once he thought about it.

House glanced out of his office windows, his eyes searching out the moon that was the only glowing form of light in the steady darkness. If he wanted to reach a new life by tomorrow, he needed to get moving.

One thing he loved about this plan was that it was impulsive. He wasn't thinking it as a copious event, he was seeing it as a change that was similar to switching yogurt flavors. It was a good thing.

House hastened out of his office door, not even caring if it hit him in the rear as he hobbled away.

He had steered clear of all of the potentially problematic people in the hospital, Cuddy, Wilson, Taub, Kutner… when all of a sudden, as the exit doors were only a meter away, Thirteen got in his path.

"House, we need your consent for the biopsy–" she began, holding out an array of papers. House pushed her away, scowling. He refused to make eye contact with her as he limped swiftly to the door.

"Wha – _House!_" Thirteen yelled after him. "House, what the hell?"

House sighed, slowly coming to a stop. There was a twinge of guiltiness – but only a twinge – on his shoulders as he realized that his team would return to work tomorrow, gob smacked at their boss's absence, and technically unemployed.

Turning on the spot, he frowned at Thirteen. "Tell the others that I'm sorry." He muttered shortly before he limped away again.

"House, what's going on?"

"I can't stay here anymore!" he shouted over his shoulder coldly, shoving open the door hard enough to break the glass. Thirteen slipped outside with him, stammering.

"What? You – you can't seriously be talking about leaving New Jersey, what about your career? Or me and Taub and Kutner?! House, what the hell are you thinking??"

"You don't understand," House mumbled, still avoiding Thirteen's furious gaze, "I'm sorry that your little matchmaking hobby didn't pan out but Wilson is never going to love me."

Thirteen's expression, previously cantankerously urgent, softened slightly. "Oh," she murmured, "that's what this is about. Don't let Wilson ruin you!"

"He already has!" House retorted stubbornly, "don't even try and argue with me, all right? I'm leaving. You can't stop me." He forced himself to turn away from his dejected employee, his eyes seeking out his motorcycle among the parking lot.

"I bet Wilson can."

"Wilson can't do anything for me anymore." House dismissed quietly before he gave Thirteen one last goodbye glance over his shoulder, "you were a good doctor, Thirteen. I'm sorry I won't be around long enough to fire you."

House did find it a little unsettling that Thirteen did not return his goodbye, shake her head in disapproval, or even call him a selfish bastard. All she did was run back into the hospital as though death itself were on her heels. House frowned after her before he continued to hobble hurriedly across the shadowy parking lot.

--

Thirteen was flying through the halls of Princeton Plainsboro like a helicopter on speed.

She had dropped the papers for the biopsy two halls ago, and now her only focus was finding Wilson's office as she sped swiftly on the ground, dodging doctors and wheezing patients. Her white hospital coat was flying behind her almost like a cape, which did nothing to improve the incredibly histrionic drama that wafted amiss her.

Thirteen screeched to a halt at Wilson's office, picturing House's motorcycle zooming down the streets with no regard for speed limits whatsoever in her mind. It brought chills to her spine thinking about her efforts being fruitless and that she would be too late to stop House.

Knocking was not at all imperative as Thirteen crashed through Wilson's office door, panting.

"Thirteen," Wilson greeted, startled, "What a pleasant surprise. What's going–"

"House is _leaving_ New Jersey!" Thirteen yelled at the baffled oncologist, her mind a haze of mystification and anger and breathlessness from dashing through the halls of the hospital. Still panting, Thirteen practically needed a syringe to inflate her lung.

Instant worry flooded over his face. "What?" Wilson asked, baffled. He looked practically frozen as he sat motionless behind his desk.

"He wants to start over because you've caused him too much pain!" Thirteen resisted the urge to add an impolite _you bastard!_ to the end of her sentence. She settled for glaring at Wilson instead as she leant against the doorframe exhaustingly.

"Oh my god." Wilson breathed, his mouth dropping open.

"Don't tell me you're glad!" the brown-haired doctor yelled infuriatingly, "you need to stop him!"

"Did he… did he tell you to tell me about this?"

"No!" Thirteen shouted, her voice growing louder with each syllable, "Don't you get it, Wilson? He'll be gone for good and you'll have only yourself to blame!"

"You didn't stop him?" Wilson accused furiously, his eyes flashing.

"Don't get mad at me, Wilson, House is probably packing right now!"

Wilson stood up shakily from his desk, snatching up his coat from the hanger by the door. "I need to catch him." he muttered determinedly.

Thirteen caught his arm urgently, "You're not going to do anything for him if you just break his heart again!" she hissed.

"I – what?"

"Don't you love him?" Thirteen questioned, her jaw set and her eyes imploringly expectant, "he needs to know you do!"

Wilson's eyes were blankly hollow as he comprehended the question, "I'm going to stop him," it wasn't exactly an answer to Thirteen's inquiry, but perhaps it was to one of the questions in his own head. He was halfway out the door, a sleeve clinging onto one of his arms, when Thirteen interrupted.

"If I have to search for work because you fail at this, _you're_ getting me a job." She warned, hands on her hips.

--

Wilson had one thought running through his head.

_Losing House_.

He should have seen this coming. He should have known that he and House would have been better off if Wilson would have kept his distance. And an apology for causing pain was not enough to keep House in New Jersey anymore.

Wilson's tie was flying over his shoulder as he rushed across the dark parking lot, searching out his car with frantic eyes. It seemed like the familiar area was lost to Wilson as he ran up and down aisles in search for his automobile. When he finally located the vehicle, he practically tripped over air on his mad dash towards it. He fumbled for his keys, ready to yell out in bottled up frustration as he unlocked his car door and started it hastily. He was speeding down the street like an inebriated mad man. He swerved at the corners, the whole scene reminiscent of his frenzied charge to House's apartment when he overdosed.

Except this time, Wilson would be the one dying if it was too late.

He almost ran into a parking meter as he parked in front of the familiar entrance door, not caring that he had parked in the handicapped spot, not caring if he would get a ticket as he hurried inside the building and knocked on House's door hard enough to bruise his knuckles.

He listened at the door for noise, any sort of indication that House hadn't taken off yet. Wilson's heart was palpating hard enough to jumpstart a car as he waited at the door. His nerves were powered with electricity at the moment as he danced on the balls of his feet worriedly.

"Please, please, please…" Wilson mumbled in a litany of hope. He needed just one more chance to prove to House that he wasn't going to hurt him anymore. And not only that, but that he would heal his past wounds.

If House wouldn't answer the door, Wilson didn't know what he would do. House could have gone anywhere in the world, and Wilson was just one tiny person. A cat and mouse game that would be practically impossible. It was a large world. Too large.

They were miserable odds.

_CHAPTER 18 TEASER_: "I can't believe I messed this up," Wilson breathed sorrowfully.

_AN_: I realize that this chapter is a little short compared to the others, but believe me, the next one will definitely not be!! :D

I'm giving my thanks this chapter to _Bjafi_, another devoted and dedicated reviewer. She's such a wonderful reviewer who always knows the perfect way to give a compliment! She always has such nice words to say and they really spur me on with my story. Thank you so much, _Bjafi_!


	18. Chapter 18

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

_WARNING_: This chapter contains content that is M rated. Those of you who have been waiting for this patiently, read on! And for those of you who are not willing to be subjected to this sort of chapter, mosey on and wait for the next one!

The tension was unbearable as Wilson waited by House's door, his forehead pressed against it.

And he waited.

And he waited.

And he waited.

Wilson worried his lower lip, running a hand through his hair with a groan of frustration. He kicked the door furiously, not even bothering to wince in pain when it made hard contact with his foot.

"I can't believe I messed this up," Wilson breathed sorrowfully. His hand gripped the doorknob hard enough to bruise his palm and crack his knuckles. Why had he thought that being cold and distant to House and attempting to put the blame on him would make things back to the way they were? Why did he reprimand House for loving him? Why did he force House to deny his own feelings and recreate the coworker-coworker relationship they previously had when there was obviously no way that would have worked?

Why had he done this to _himself_?

He sighed, the air around him rattled and broken.

In the time span of a second, Wilson was sent staggering forward, stumbling over air as the door to House's apartment was jerked open suddenly.

As Wilson caught and straightened himself, he stared blankly into House's eyes, his expression indescribable.

"Damn Thirteen." House muttered, eyeing Wilson up and down.

Wilson's eyes scanned the apartment hastily. He could feel his heart lodge up into his throat as his eyes fell upon a half packed suitcase lying on the couch. A few clothes, what looked like a life supply of vicodin, and some toiletries. Wilson let out the breath he had been suppressing, looking at House concernedly.

"Please don't go." He mumbled, his voice cracking. He had half a mind to grab House's shoulders and crush him into a rib-cracking hug, but it seemed like his feet had been glued to the floor.

House stared at Wilson critically, his eyes searching him out like an x-ray simply waiting to find any sort of dishonesty in Wilson's words.

"You don't want me here." The diagnostician finally murmured, walking back to his suitcase stubbornly, "And I'm sick of loving you. Oh, I'm sorry, I meant _annoying_ you." he added bitterly.

Wilson rubbed a hand on his forehead to wipe away the profusely trickling beads of sweat that were forming. "Please," he said again, "please, House, I want you to know that I never meant to hurt you–"

"You already have," House shot down roughly, "so save yourself the breath. You're going to lose this argument."

"I'm not giving up," Wilson retorted insistently, "House, I… I–"

"I love you," the older doctor said fiercely, throwing a shampoo bottle into his suitcase aggressively, "I kiss you, you don't push me away but you don't want anything to do with me."

"House, please–"

"Oh, what stupid thing are you going to say now, Wilson? Something dishonest to make me stay? You've been lying this whole time, you don't want to see me ever again because of all of the trouble I've caused both of us and we both know that." House yelled, his fingers furling around his cane tightly.

"House, just please let me talk!"

"Fine!" he roared, "talk! Oh, and don't mind me if I won't be listening!"

"House–"

"I am done with your shit, Wilson! I don't need any more of your bipolar behavior, your mixed signals, your lectures… I don't need _you_ anymore! Get _lost_!"

Wilson was speechless. The apartment was soon filled with dead air, silence overwhelming the awkwardness of the situation. The only noise left in the room was the sounds of House's vicious packing and the quiet churning and bubbling of the coffee machine in the kitchen.

"Fine, I'll go," the oncologist finally said, defeated, "just let me say one thing."

House's jaw was set and the vein in his temple was throbbing, but his mouth remained firmly shut. Not even a glance was sent in Wilson's direction.

Wilson took a deep breath, "I can't get you out my head," he admitted silently, "so… so a part of me is starting to believe that maybe you're supposed to be there."

House's hands froze in their act of tossing things into his bag as he slowly turned his face to catch Wilson's gaze, as though to detect if his words were honest or simply persuasive lies.

"And if you let me," Wilson continued, his voice breaking, "and if you give me a chance. And if you're willing to take me, I'll… I'll be yours."

The cane in House's grip dropped to the floor with a clank as he seemed to have lost control of his hands. House stared at his friend incredulously.

"But," he whispered, "I'm damaged."

Wilson smiled softly, "Almost undamaged."

House glanced at his haphazardly packed suitcase with hesitation before his gaze returned to Wilson, "Well," he mumbled, "that's… that's all I needed to hear."

The brown-haired man's face broke out into the epitome of bliss, his grin growing faster than a penny could fall from a rooftop. House, his cane forgotten, rushed over to Wilson and threw his arms around his shoulders in a desperate, clingy embrace that just screamed relief and celebration because the demons of misery that haunted House were killed. Wilson's fingertips dug into House's skin almost painfully, but House couldn't care less. The man that he loved, the man that he yearned for, was finally in his arms and not flinching away. He was responding, he was leaning into House's touch, and it made him shiver just at the thought.

Wilson pulled back a hair, just enough so they could see each other's eyes reflect in their own. Wilson tilted his head suggestively, a single strand of hair falling into his forehead. He let out a hot breath of air on House's chin. Before either of them could say anything, their lips seemed to naturally gravitate towards each other, massaging and rubbing their tongues together. House wrapped his arms further around Wilson, tight enough to never let go again.

The kiss only lasted a few seconds, as right afterward they were locked in their strong embrace once again. House sighed contentedly.

"'S feels nice." He murmured, inhaling the scent of Wilson's hair. "Better than I thought it would."

"What are you talking about? We've hugged before."

"Not like this," House meekly shook his head, too engrossed in the bone-crushing hug to talk more. Wilson clutched him tighter.

"I'm so sorry we didn't do this earlier," Wilson apologized, pulling back to stare at House sorrowfully. "I was… scared. Of losing my friend, I guess. I just never thought this would work."

The older man smiled faintly, his hand running out of Wilson's hair to cup his cheek. "Then let me prove you wrong."

Once again, their mouths found each other, hands ghosting over each other's skin. Despite the fact that House was the one being deprived of such a desire for so long, Wilson was the frantic, needy one. It was almost as though he was hungrily devouring House's lips as he gripped all of the blood out of House's body. In a strange way, it was oddly arousing for the diagnostician.

Wilson bit mercilessly on House's lower lip, both of them moaning greedily as the heat between them roared to an unavoidable fire. House wasn't going to pretend to ignore the tingling in his groin and the same want coming from Wilson. He rolled his hips ever-so-subtly, Wilson moaning wantonly as a response. The younger man slid two fingers up to House's waist to lightly lift up his shirt, massaging the skin there teasingly. House broke their kiss.

"Couch?" Wilson offered breathlessly. House shook his head.

"Leather – leather gets sticky." He pointed out, glancing at the sofa. He grabbed Wilson's wrist, cocking his head suggestively to the bedroom door. Wilson grinned momentarily before he captured House's lips in another heated kiss, stumbling back into the bedroom the whole time.

Wilson felt his knees buckle as they made hard contact to the bed, causing him to topple over with House landing victoriously on top of him. Their lips met in one gentle brush of the lips, both of them smiling onto each other's mouths.

"I love you." House whispered.

"I love you too." Wilson replied quietly, his fingers weaving around the disheveled locks that curled around the nape of House's neck.

"It's nice to finally hear you say it back."

They grinned in unity before they kissed once again, House's hands moving down to softly pop open the first button on Wilson's shirt. The oncologist pulled House's shirt over his head, his hands roaming the older man's bare chest. Wilson busied himself with sucking ruthlessly at his neck while House continued to unbutton Wilson's shirt. Finally when he had succeeded, he threw it off of the younger doctor's man form like a famished animal. Wilson flipped them over, pinning House's hands onto the pillow and landing on top of him deftly. They both groaned as their groins collided. They pressed against each other achingly, Wilson immediately letting his fingers fumble with the button on House's jeans.

House squeezed at Wilson's arm urgently, "Have you forgotten how to put off pants?" he demanded gruffly, bucking his hips, "there's a zipper!"

Not before long, Wilson had kicked off his pants and House's as well, both of them rolling against each other's skin. House couldn't even feel the stinging in his leg as Wilson straddled him firmly, rubbing their hips together before they kissed again. House arched into the touch, tugging at the boxers still clinging to Wilson's skin.

It took two seconds for both men to be clad in nothing but their sweat. The feeling of their bare erections brushing against each other was enough to bring House over the edge. He groaned, rocking frantically against the younger man's touch. They rolled into each other's thrusts, crying out each time. House grabbed Wilson's elbow hard enough to bruise, repeatedly driving his hips upward and frantically sliding against each other. It was a pleasure that House didn't get from Stacy or any other woman he'd ever have do him a favor before, it was unbearable want and unbearable need. House was shaking like a storm-tossed leaf in Wilson's arms.

Through a blurry haze of relief, House lay, finished, on the mattress, Wilson collapsing on top of him a moment later. He stretched out cat-like against House's torso, wrapping his arms possessively around the older man's side. House gently felt Wilson's head fall onto his shoulder, his breathing evening out. House let out a faint _I love you_ to Wilson's ear before sleep pulled him into a deep slumber.

_CHAPTER 19 TEASER_: "Did you two make up?" Thirteen pried urgently. House smiled at her smugly. "Replace the _up_ with an _out_ and then yes, we did!"


	19. Chapter 19

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

There was something very therapeutic about the feeling of steady breathing huffing against House's neck and the heaving of a chest against his. It was a beautiful morning, with sun rays and agreeable temperatures. There were even birds chirping.

House stretched the arm that wasn't underneath Wilson's waist sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. It was practically a miracle that his leg wasn't already throbbing like a construction site from all of the pressure he had subjected it to last night.

Mmm, last night.

House licked his lips, smiling as he realized he was tasting the flavor of Wilson's tongue on his mouth. It was nice, almost as if Wilson had claimed and marked his man once and for all, something that House had been waiting months for.

Through his mind ran the memories of the previous night. If it hadn't been for the peaceful oncologist lying in his arms completely nude, House wouldn't believe it himself.

"_I love you."_

"_I love you too." _

"_It's nice to finally hear you say it back_._"_

Good things don't happen to Greg House. He was never the type to wait for miracles. He simply dismissed them. The world was too cruel for marvels and perfection, but yet House himself had experienced one. He still was. In a way, it was too perfect. So fallible that it was practically waiting for a pie in the face.

House smiled.

He liked pie.

Wilson stirred sluggishly against House, wriggling his arms. "'Morning." He mumbled groggily, his eyes meeting House's.

The older doctor grinned at the sight of Wilson's disheveled morning hair and his half-opened eyes. He softly kissed Wilson's forehead, pulling him on top of his waist.

"It's nice to wake up next to you." Their lips met for three seconds in a gentle brush, a tender greeting.

"Had a good night?"

House sighed contentedly in Wilson's hair, "The best," he breathed. Wilson chuckled against his chest, lightly pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"We should go to work." Wilson mentioned, pointing feebly up to the clock. House captured Wilson's pointed finger in his fist, stroking his palm with a smile.

"I'd much rather stay here."

"Me too," the oncologist laughed wrapping his arms around House's waist, "but we should really get going."

House had never been good at pouting properly. Wilson eased himself out of the bed, but not without reluctance, and House gave up persuading. Sighing, he reached for the clothes scattered haphazardly on the ground, tossing Wilson his shirt.

"I can't go to work wearing the same clothes I did yesterday, they'll suspect something!" Wilson hissed. House looked up from gathering his clothing with raised eyebrows and a frown.

"All right. Your majesty." Wilson pursed his lips at House sternly, "Seriously, now. First of all, _I'll_ be wearing different clothes today. And second of all, they all already know!"

Wilson promptly dropped his pants, "What?!" he demanded, "They _all_ know? Who exactly is _all _of them?!"

House shrugged, "Well, Cuddy already knew that I was in love with you, but I'm guessing that Thirteen decided to tell her about my leaving New Jersey because of you along with the rest of my team."

Wilson stopped the buttoning of his shirt as House limped cane-lessly into his closet. "Uh… House?"

House's head peered out sharply from the closet door, "Don't you think you can call me Greg now?"

Wilson subconsciously felt a smile creep its way onto his mouth, "Yeah," he responded, "Yeah, I can. Anyway, Greg," the way the name sounded on his tongue just alone made Wilson's spine shiver like a newborn kitten. "You're not… I mean, you're not… still thinking about leaving New Jersey, are you?"

House hobbled out of the closet, smiling faintly at Wilson, "You were the reason I wanted to go," he said, "but now you're the reason I want to stay."

"So you don't mind if I throw out that suitcase you were packing yesterday??"

The older man chortled, nodding. "I hated that suitcase anyway."

"Oh, just, uh, one more thing."

House raised his eyebrows expectantly, still impatiently holding his pants in one hand. Wilson grinned.

"I think you can put those down."

"What?" Before House was able to question the oncologist more, Wilson had grabbed his wrists, pressing their lips together firmly, a hungry edge to his kiss as he bit teasingly on House's lower lip while he pulled away.

"Oh," House began, narrowing his eyes slightly, "oh, that's not fair at all." He muttered, tossing the pants onto the floor as though they were yesterday's newspaper before he reclaimed Wilson's mouth and they toppled on the bed in a tangle of limbs and silent, husky laughter.

"We're never going to get to work, are we?" Wilson breathed, a little concerned.

"Not while I'm around." House growled possessively. And as their mouths connected again, their noses rubbing painfully together and their teeth grinding, Wilson's concerns shot out of his head and headed straight for his groin.

--

"You better have a good excuse for being so late," Cuddy snarled, "or I'll find a place for you in the morgue."

House smiled in the slightly irritating I-know-something-you-don't-know way that made Cuddy purse her lips together warningly. The patient she was nursing yelped as she took his blood sample rougher than intended to.

"That would be so much more threatening if it wasn't completely hollow," House smirked as Cuddy's shoulders slumped, "seen Thirteen?"

"She's doing her job," Cuddy gritted through her teeth, "something other people should be doing as well."

"Well," House began, scratching at the back of his head, "I hope you find those people. Tell them off, all right?" he commanded sardonically, limping off to his office, a smile permanently painted onto his face.

"Thought you might like coffee." Wilson poked House in the shoulder suddenly, smiling broadly with two steaming cups deposited in his grip. He lifted one to House invitingly.

"I hope it's as hot as you are."

"It'll be even hotter," Wilson said with a sigh, idly stirring his own cup, "off to your office?"

"Yeah," House nodded, but slowed his pace slightly as an idea shoved its way into his mind. He raised one eyebrow suggestively at his friend, "but I can blow that idea off. Find a janitor closet just big enough for two people? I can think of several things we can do with a mop."

"I'm sure there's quite the list," Wilson said, "but I have a cancer patient that's been waiting for two hours."

"Well," House pressed, "we can always leave out the mop if it suits you."

The younger doctor chuckled, raking a hand through his hair, "I'm going to have to pass, but you go enjoy yourself. Maybe I'll catch up with you later." Wilson gave House a quick kiss on his lips with a slight ruffle of the hair before he hurried off to the oncology department. House stared after him.

"I'll be in the closet."

And the thumbs up that Wilson sent him from down the hall was enough to make House's day brighter than it already was.

--

"–his crave for salt and weight loss points toward Addison's disease, but his blood pressure is too high and he has plenty of glucose in his blood, so–"

"Hands up, Foreman, or I'll have to shove you away from the whiteboard myself." House's smug voice rang clearly through the office. Four sets of eyes snapped in his direction.

"What the hell–?" Foreman muttered, squinting his eyes.

"I thought he had left, right, he was leaving?" Taub's voice whispered discreetly across the table.

"Thirteen!" Kutner roared indignantly across the table, glaring at the only female in the room.

"Don't blame me, I thought he was already gone!" the brunette defended heatedly, staring incredulously at her boss.

"So you told them all I was leaving?" House accused Thirteen, nudging Foreman away from the whiteboard with his elbow and snatching the marker from his fingers. He faced the board, scowling at the symptoms scattered along the white, "What is all of this shit? Who made this horribly inaccurate diagnosis?"

The team ignored him. Thirteen began babbling.

"You didn't show up this morning!"

"You're a pain in my ass, Thirteen," House blamed acidly, hastily erasing the board's contents, "you send Wilson after me and then in the morning you tell these gullible fools that I'm over the ocean eating scones and tea during lunch with Sherlock Holmes. You all are such _idiots_!" House shook his head, glaring at his baffled and dumbstruck team.

But the silence didn't last long. Kutner and Taub exchanged slightly awkward glances while Foreman raised his eyebrows disbelievingly at House while Thirteen's face immediately brightened in hope.

"Did you two make up?" Thirteen pried urgently.

House smiled at her smugly, "Replace the _up_ with an _out_ and then yes, we did! And more than that too." he couldn't help but wink impishly and smirk as he watched Taub gape and Kutner's eyes widen to the size of tree trunks. Foreman snorted.

"No way!" he said, utter disbelief etched on his face, "I saw you check out Cameron's ass for three years when she worked here!"

House smirked, "That's because you never saw me check out Chase's," he teased suggestively. Foreman's face froze, almost shriveling up like a rotten piece of fruit or deflating balloon.

"Any more of that talk and I'll start to think that you're the kind of likes to cheat," a voice announced amusedly from the doorway. House's face snapped towards Wilson's form lounging languidly again the door, his foot poised on its toes, his hands on his hips, and a thoroughly entertained smile on his lips.

"Wilson!" Thirteen greeted, grinning madly. "How nice to see you this morning!"

"Wonderful," Foreman muttered, "more people to engage in the awkward discussion of Chase's ass."

"Would you stop being such a cynic?" Thirteen snapped, folding her arms together crossly. "It's nice to see House caring for someone."

"Caring?!" Foreman tutted, almost choking on his words, "Wilson is probably only important in the sense of being a part-time sex partner!"

House smirked at Foreman's words. He flicked his fingers inward to invite Wilson subtly in. "C'mon, I don't bite."

"I think you do." Wilson teased quietly, words only meant for House's ears, but sharply snapped his head towards the discussion table when he heard Kutner drop his pen.

"Seriously?" Kutner asked.

Thirteen smiled. "I knew it! No one can be an ass for that long without there being love underneath at it all." She pointed a finger accusingly at Wilson.

"Do you hear yourself?" Foreman told Thirteen, shaking his head. The female furrowed her eyebrows exasperatedly at him, standing up from her chair.

"What do you need to believe it? A demonstration?"

"Oh, please no," Taub muttered, staring fixedly at the table as he rubbed soothingly at his temples.

"I wouldn't mind a demonstration." House shrugged, smiling suggestively at the oncologist.

"Definitely would be more comfortable then in a janitor closet, hmm?" Wilson breathed into House's ear, biting the lobe playfully before he pulled back, flushing brightly as he noticed that the whole team was watching him.

"What are you all staring at?" House barked roughly, "this isn't a dam petting zoo! Well. Not for you all." He emphasized the last part with a grope for Wilson's rear, grinning wickedly.

"I told you they were just sex partners!" Foreman hissed to the table, drumming his knuckles against the glass tabletop.

"I'm not so sure." Kutner mumbled discreetly, his eyes flicking back and forth from Foreman to House and Wilson, who were practically glued together by the hip.

"Did you see what he just groped?!" Foreman said emphatically, pointing accusingly towards the quiet couple at the front of the table.

"Get your mind out of the gutter!" Thirteen barked at both of them, "they're in love!"

"If they were in love House would be too dazed to do any quality medical work and, not to mention, he'd be taking the night shift off. _And Wilson too_. And they'd be practically living together." Foreman growled firmly at the stubbornly persistent Thirteen who had crossed her arms, unimpressed.

"He – he has a point." Wilson mumbled quietly to House. Again, the whole table's attention was back to the two older doctors as though they were sitting in the movie theater with a bag of family sized popcorn and 3D glasses.

"What?"

"Why aren't we living together?" Wilson inquired, scratching uncomfortably behind his ear.

"You look uneasy," House observed, knitting his brows together analytically, "you're uncomfortable to bring this up, aren't you?"

"I'm not uncomfortable," Wilson denied instantly.

"Yes you are," the older man pressed, taking a step forward to increase intimidation, "you bite the inside of your cheek when you're lying." Lightly, House slapped at Wilson's twitching cheek, "Stop that." he ordered roughly.

"Maybe I will, just as long you prove me wrong and that I shouldn't have any reason to be uncomfortable." Wilson's sentence faded off awkwardly.

"You want to move in with me?"

"Why not?" the oncologist pressed, shrugging, his confidence in the idea growing, "we practically already are. And I love you."

"Are you _bribing_ me?" House asked cryptically.

"What am I bribing you with?"

"Love!" the diagnostician accused, "you bastard, you're as slick as soap!"

Wilson's lips twitched upward, "Is that a yes?"

"Hell yeah!" House yelled noisily, waving his cane. "As long as that bribe for love is still valid!"

"I'll always love you." Wilson said, shrugging.

"Not that kind of love." House rasped, his voice suddenly two octaves lower. Wilson's eyes widened as the older man playfully pinched his hip and teased a belt loop.

"Now that's a bribe I like."

_AN_: This time, I'm not including a teaser, mostly because there's nothing really to tease you all about! The next chapter is the last, and as much as I regret to end it, I don't want to cause any more trouble to the House/Wilson relationship when they're stuck in peaches in cream right now! I'm definitely going to miss this story and all of you faithful reviewers… but there will be plenty of House/Wilson oneshots in the future. Perhaps I'll make another chaptered story later on, but right now I'm sticking to oneshots! I love you all!


	20. Chapter 20

_Disclaimer_: I do not own House M.D.

"Shit!"

House's shin roughly hit against one of the multitude of boxes littering the apartment's floor. Cursing underneath his breath, House maneuvered around the boxes with a scowl.

"James!" he yelled, peeved, "_James!_"

"Yeah?" Wilson's head poked out from the bedroom door, another box in hand. House hobbled forward, glancing at the apartment as though it was a nasty fungus growing in the shower curtains.

"How many more boxes do you have?" he growled gruffly.

"These are all of them."

"You're practically a woman!" House accused, motioning towards the boxes. "What's in all of these, shoes? Handbags?"

Wilson smiled playfully, kissing House softly on the lips as a greeting. "You're home early."

"The hospital doesn't know I'm gone. So technically, I'm not home at all. Not for another hour and a half."

From inside the bathroom, Wilson chuckled. House limped after him curiously, watching Wilson rummage around the boxes looking for toiletries and shampoos to fill the shower stalls. Ambiguously interested, House peered into a box perched on the sink ledge. He groaned as he found Wilson's notorious hairdryer lying on top of fuzzy towels. He picked it up, pointing it at Wilson accusingly.

"You brought _this_?" he spat.

Wilson shrugged, "I like to look put together," he eyed House's hair, "something you could learn from."

House rolled his eyes. "This thing is a construction site. We – we have to make some sort of timetable about when you're allowed to use it."

The oncologist laughed softly, "Why do I love you?" he shook his head at the shower curtain.

"Because there's something very irresistible about drug-addicted cripples with bad tempers." House muttered, sending the hair dryer one more glare before he shuffled forward on the bathroom rug and wrapped his arms around Wilson's waist from behind. Letting out a content sigh, House settled his head on the oncologist's shoulder and gently stroked his stomach. Wilson shivered slightly at the contact, moving to twist in the older man's embrace. With a small smile, Wilson snaked his arms up to caress House's hair and pressed their mouths together languorously.

"No, that's not it," Wilson teased, "maybe it's because you're a doctor." Slipping away from House's grip, Wilson slithered through the boxes to grab a snack from the kitchen.

When House had hobbled over to his countertop, Wilson had already fixed himself a sloppy sandwich. House grinned at him before hopping onto one of the stools nearby, drumming his knuckles against the counter.

"Want to go out tonight?" Wilson offered, "You know, as a celebration of my moving in."

"I have a much better idea." House husked seductively.

"And what's that?"

"How about we stay in… and postpone packing." House suggested with a waggle of the eyebrows. Wilson leant across the counter, grinning.

"Then I'll never unpack!" he pointed out, raking a hand through his hair.

"You will, just not today," House pleaded, running fingers down Wilson's arm teasingly. He slowly traced abstract patterns on the oncologist's elbow with a fingertip.

"It's just not a good idea, Greg, I – _oh_."

House's hand slithered its way down to Wilson's hip, where it pinched the skin through the thin fabric of his trousers playfully. Leaning across the counter with tantalizingly slow effort to do so, he placed his parted lips on Wilson's jugular and let his suppressed breath out there. Wilson's breath hitched in his throat with a noisy swallow.

"Still want to unpack?" He mumbled, thumbs ghosting over the younger man's thighs.

Wilson fisted House's shirt in his hands roughly, "You _tease_." He growled throatily, slamming House down onto the kitchen counter. The diagnostician groaned as his back made contact with the stiff counter, but his pain was immediately forgotten as Wilson grabbed his hair and frantically pressed their mouths together, hoisting himself up so he was halfway lying on House. But the moment only lasted for another three seconds. In the midst of his passion, Wilson climbed onto the counter, his knee pushing a box full of wooden spoons and spice bottles onto the floor with a crash. The two men instantly pulled apart, eyes riveting downward to examine what had fallen.

"Damnit!" Wilson cursed underneath his breath, hopping off the counter and tending to the nutmeg and cinnamon that was smothered on the carpet. "Oh, that was my last bottle of curry!" Frustratingly, Wilson threw an empty bottle into the trash can, scooping up the spices into his hands.

House attempted to dislodge his foot from the kitchen sink, his shin making hard contact with the spout. He struggled to get off the counter, handing Wilson a broom.

"That is a _strong _smell," House immediately wafted at his nose, eyes wide, "very fragrant. What is that?"

"It's cumin. Sorry about this, Greg, but looks like your carpet is going to stink of it for the next few months."

House sighed but didn't press on it, instead joining Wilson on the floor and gently stroking fingers through his scalp. Wilson pressed his head into the touch, an unnoticeable purring sound escaping his lips. Silence ran through the air, leaving House to his ginger massaging and Wilson to his tidying.

Picking up a broken cinnamon bottle, House held it to his nostrils, smiling, "I love cinnamon," he remarked, "it reminds me of Christmas. Before… before things got bad between me and my dad at home when I was younger, every holiday my mother would bake these cookies. And they weren't gingerbread, because I was allergic, so it was cinnamon that would take its place. Despite the fact that they were only baked once during all of winter that smell would be practically embedded in the walls." Sighing softly, House twisted the bottle in his palm.

Wilson looked up at him, beaming, "I never knew that," he told him quietly, one nutmeg-coated hand reaching up to lightly brush along House's cheek, "it's nice."

"Not really," House shook his head, "It's a spoiled memory. After my dad and I got into all sorts of trouble the smell of cinnamon during Christmastime only reminded me of home, and home was no longer a place I wanted to remember."

Smiling sadly, Wilson hooked an arm around the older doctor's shoulder to pull him into a one-armed embrace. House fell into it, his head dropping wearily onto Wilson's shoulder. "And now? What's home to you now?"

House lifted his head from his perch on Wilson, smiling at him, "You." he mumbled, pressing their mouths together and promptly dropping the cinnamon bottle to the floor so his hand could wrap its way around Wilson's neck.

"You're getting spice all over my clothes." The brown-haired man murmured against House's lips, laughing.

House joined in on the laughing, "Maybe you should take off your clothes," he hinted in a low whisper, "you know. Before it sets in." He attempted to bring their mouths together again but Wilson wriggled from the older man's grip, setting the fallen box upright and standing up.

"Oh, you're not distracting me from unpacking again. I have work to do!"

House groaned, throwing his head back as he reached for his vicodin pills, "Fine." He agreed, tossing a pill into his mouth, "So! Where's your box of sex?"

Wilson knitted his eyebrows together, looking up from one of the boxes, "Box. Of sex?" he repeated slowly.

House nodded, "Yeah. You know, porn, dirty magazines, lube, toys, all of that."

"Why do you think I have one of those?"

"I don't think so. I would like to, but I'm not seeing it happening." House shrugged, sighing, resting his hip against the counters.

Wilson buried his head into one of the boxes. "Third shelf in the closet." he muttered shamefacedly, the one part of his forehead peeking out from the book tinged scarlet. House grinned.

"I think I'll go help unload _that_ box."

--

House's arms were wrapped firmly around Wilson's undoubtedly naked body, his back pressed tightly against the diagnostician's chest and his unruly brown hair ruffling the stubble underneath his chin. A soft, untroubled sigh escaped from his lips as he gently tangled his legs with Wilson's. The sleeping man made a dissatisfied noise, burrowing closer and nestling his back further against House's chest. House smiled.

He couldn't fall asleep.

It was strange, seeing that House had everything he needed to. A calm, quiet bedroom. Not a lot of work ahead of him for the next day. A loving man in his arms. Warm sheets hooked up to his chest.

But there was something plaguing the back of House's mind. Wilson was a loyal partner with much devotion and compassion, but House also knew that Wilson had a big problem with keeping relationships steady. It would be somewhat appropriate to give the oncologist _Idiot's Guide To Marriage_ for his birthday as a present. And the only thing House was worried about was that Wilson was going to wriggle himself free of this relationship as well.

His grip on Wilson tightening instinctively, arms wrapping protectively around his torso as he planted tender kisses in his hair. Wilson murmured appreciatively in the back of his throat, twisting in House's embrace so he was breathing steadily into House's neck.

The older man gently ran his leg up Wilson's thigh, biting his lip when he felt him stir in his arms. Once Wilson's eyes fluttered open sleepily, House apologetically kissed his forehead.

"…Greg?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, "couldn't sleep."

Wilson slid a hand up and down House's chest soothingly, propping himself up on his elbow. "What's wrong?" he asked imploringly. "Can I help?" Wilson trailed a line of feathery, comforting kisses down his neckline.

"Am… am I your wife, James?" House asked bluntly.

"_What?_ My _wife_?"

"You've divorced three of them. That's a whole lot of wives."

Wilson disentangled himself slightly from their entwined bodies, leaning back to stare incredulously at House. "You think I'm going to mess up this relationship just like my others?"

"I don't think you'll mess it up," House continued, "I think you'll get bored of me."

Wilson smiled faintly at the older doctor. Ever since the whole chaos with loving Wilson had begun, House's insecurities had shined more prominently than ever. Wilson captured their lips together in a soft kiss.

"I think that's absolutely impossible," he remarked, "Greg House is all but boring."

Both of them laughing quietly, Wilson wrapped his arms firmly around House's waist and burrowed them closer together, smiling against his chest. "I love you." he murmured against his skin.

"I love you too."

--

"Something smells strange."

Wilson expertly ran a wooden spoon along a sizzling hot pan, smiling up at a pajama-clad House, limping barefoot along the floor with his cane by his side.

"It smells _strange_? Not good?"

"Of course it smells good. But I don't normally have good smells in my apartment so the smell is strange." House reasoned logically, shuffling behind Wilson to peer over his shoulder.

"Eggs in a bread bowl. My secret recipe."

"I want your special pancakes," House whined, "the ones you made when you last lived here – I, oh, _mm_."

Halfway in between his sentence Wilson stuffed a spoonful of egg into his mouth, grinning satisfyingly when House groaned appreciatively.

"Gimme that spoon!" The older man demanded, snatching it up from Wilson's grip. He ate a few more mouthfuls hungrily, Wilson laughing at his greediness before he seized the pan away from House's reach.

"Hey!" House exclaimed indignantly.

"I want some too!" Wilson told him.

"So do I!"

"You already ate half the pan's worth!"

Wilson held the pan discreetly at his back, laughing when House pawed at it, "Give it to the cripple, c'mon!"

Wilson pushed a finger to House's lips, shaking his head, "I get a kiss, you get a spoonful."

"Deal." House murmured against Wilson's finger before he batted his hand away and pressed their mouths together. Wilson moaned as House's tongue flickered its way into the equation, running all over Wilson's mouth. Wilson almost dropped the pan on the floor to pull House closer, but not before House pulled away suddenly, hand expectantly outstretched.

"For that, I think you may just get two spoonfuls."

--

House was stretched out languidly on the couch, vaguely registering the noises from the TV and the noises coming from Wilson unpacking the rest of the boxes in the bedroom. He idly pressed the _play_ button on his answering machine, listening as Cuddy's tinny voice broke through.

"House? I know that it's stressful having Wilson moving in and I'm sure you have a lot of unpacking to do, but your team has been working on a case all by themselves today… if you could make it in tomorrow…?"

House chuckled, promptly deleting the message. "Foreman can handle it," he murmured to the phone, turning his attention back to the TV.

"Was that Cuddy?" Wilson asked, leaning in the doorway with clothes hangers swinging in his palm.

"Yup."

"Does she need us to come in?"

"I'm sure everything's fine," House muttered, nodding his head, "I guess she's not used to me being occupied with something else. And you know, being happy and all."

Wilson walked over to the back of the couch, his hands sliding down House's chest and slipping into his shirt. Cheek pressing against House's uncultivated hair, he mumbled, "I'm used to you being happy. It's nice."

House looked over his shoulder, softly kissing at Wilson's hairline, "Almost done unpacking?"

"Only a few boxes left. Want to help?"

"Not really." House shook his head, "Cleaning is going to make me a tidier person, and that is just not who you fell in love with."

Wilson pressed a chaste kiss to House's hair before he slid his hands out of House's shirt and vanished back into the bedroom to finish unpacking.

--

"All done. I am officially moved in."

"C'mere!" House motioned for Wilson to join him on the couch, waving his hand invitingly. Grasping the younger man's fingers, House pulled him onto his lap and absentmindedly stroked his hair. "How do you want to celebrate?"

"We could… eat out."

House raised an eyebrow, "Does that scream celebration to you?" he scoffed, "I was thinking more along the lines of calling in sick for the next week of work." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, running a hand up Wilson's thigh.

"Both of us?" Wilson inquired, "doesn't that look suspicious, Greg?"

House shook his head, "Of course not! We live together; if I catch a cold you naturally would as well."

"A whole week? That would… would be a long celebration." Wilson tilted his head.

"Interested?" House nibbled teasingly at Wilson's neck, sucking at his jaw.

"Sounds like a good idea."

Pulling back with a grin, House wriggled himself free from Wilson's grip and stood up, reaching for his cane. "So!" he offered, "how about tonight I sleep in your bed and you sleep in my bed?"

"Same bed, Greg," Wilson pointed out.

House winked impishly. "Exactly."

_AN_: _Sniffles_. Oh god, I get so attached to a story when I write one! And to my dedicated reviewers. Stick around, all of you! Like I said before, I have two House/Wilson oneshots already in the making! I'd like to thank ALL OF YOU for your loyalty and faith in this story. It really spurred me on to write more. I have had such a blast writing this story, and you all only have yourselves to thank for that. Pat yourselves on the back!! I love you all, and any of you should feel free to come up and chat with me!

Now all I have left to say is _fin_.


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